


Forever and a Day

by BringtheKaos



Series: The Witch's Trinity [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Crowley, Book Universe, But like a looooooong way off, But only to deal with his touch starvation, Crowley has a penis, Crowley is a bit of a slut, Demisexual Aziraphale, Eventual A/C smut, Exorcisms, Heavenly retribution, Multi, One brief instance of non consensual touching, Original Female Character - Freeform, Plot with porn thrown in, Referenced Past Rape, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage, Top Aziraphale, Wing Kink, Wings, Witches and curses, a canonical amount of excessive drinking, an angst/porn/fluff stew if you will, aziraphale has a penis, but mainly mature/explicit, but they're changeable on that too, but they're definitely vers, but with show elements thrown in, eventually, individual chapter ratings in chapter notes, like... a lot of it, mostly bottom Crowley, no body swap, sexual discovery/exploration, some exorbitant fluff, some minor drug use, with bisexual experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 71
Words: 294,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringtheKaos/pseuds/BringtheKaos
Summary: Sequel toRecoil.Aziraphale and Crowley long ago swore off becoming too attached to humans; too much heartbreak involved with such a brief (to them) lifespan. But with the two of them now involved in the Witch's Trinity Curse, they have no choice. Penelope Blackthorn is a part of their lives now, and the enigma of their bond continues to mystify all three of them, as it morphs and strengthens over time. And with Crowley freed from Hell's grip, and Aziraphale's loyalty weak at best, the angel and demon start to become closer and tackle the barriers that have kept them at arms reach of each other for 6000 years. But as usual, they struggle to speak openly with each other, with that 6000 years of Heavenly and Hellish brainwashing respectively. So it takes a clairvoyant witch, who can literally gauge their feelings by touching them, to translate for them. And they both become rather fond of their monkey in the middle.





	1. The Devil's Departure, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say you can read this without reading Recoil, but a LOT will not make sense. But if you wanna give it a shot, I'm here for you.  
This story starts before Recoil even ended. I wanted an optimistic ending for Recoil, so these missing scenes didn't fit. But they're essential for setting up this story.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Angst. Like a lot. A shit ton of hurt, as much comfort as is possible in the situation.

Aziraphale breathed shallowly, feeling something in the air he wasn’t quite sure he recognized. It was demonic, ergo coming from Crowley, but... it wasn’t the demon’s aura. It was something else.  
  
“You’ve done nothing unrighteous. This was my choice, not yours. I was going to try it, with or without you. All you did was ensure I succeeded,” the girl Penny said, laying an attempted comforting hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. In the state of things, the events of the evening... it felt more patronizing than anything. But the angel was sure she hadn’t meant it that way, so he simply nodded, replying with restrained sarcasm “Lovely.”  
  
He peered at the fireplace one more time, his better judgment telling him that Lucifer wouldn’t just leave that easily. But the flames were dying, the ashes of the pentagram were scattering, and the heavy darkness was lifting.  
  
Lucifer... it seemed... had actually relinquished his hold on Crowley. And let a witch have him...  
  
Apparently.  
  
“Alright, up you pop,” Aziraphale said distractedly, his angel heart still torn about having consented to a human surrendering her soul.   
  
He attempted to push to his feet, his arm under Crowley’s, but paused as Crowley’s hand clenched hard on Aziraphale’s back, bunching up his shirt. Aziraphale looked at him finally, feeling himself pale. Crowley had slouched a bit farther forward on his knees, the adrenaline rush of Lucifer’s presence apparently wearing off.  
  
“A-angel,” he whimpered, his hand beginning to tremble as it continued to grasp Aziraphale with monstrous conviction.  
  
Aziraphale softened, leaning back down. Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but only a doggish whine escaped.  
  
“Crowley, what is it?” Aziraphale asked worriedly, peeking up at Penny, who was supporting him on the other side. She simply stared.  
  
“This may—” he paused, another pained sound escaping as a shudder coursed through him. “May b—be a very sh—short lived victory..._ literally,_ angel...”  
His breath hitched in his throat, and he slammed his eyes shut tight, attempting to pitch forward and only managing to lean against the grasps of both Aziraphale and Penny.  
  
Aziraphale felt like his heart did a backflip in his chest.  
  
“Oh... you mean...” he whispered, disbelieving.  
  
Crowley nodded haltingly, his whole body beginning to shiver uncontrollably. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what would happen if Crowley discorporated, what with the new arrangement with the witch and all, but... he wasn’t willing to find out.  
  
“What?” Penny asked, obviously not understanding.  
  
Aziraphale began to understand what he was feeling in the air... it was Crowley. Not his aura, but his very soul—searching desperately for a way to avoid discorporating.  
Worry seeped down to Aziraphale’s very bones, first and foremost for his dear friend, but also for the vulnerable human girl who might fall victim to the demon’s desperation.  
  
“No time to explain,” Aziraphale hurried, fishing in his pocket for his rosary and handing it to Penny. Crowley hissed viciously as the divinity threatened his weakened state.  
  
“Take this—take it far away from him. And if you have any holy symbols on your person, get rid of them,” he begged, clutching Crowley closer to support him as Penny took the rosary and pulled away.  
  
“Why, I don’t understand?!” Penny yelped as she stood and backed away.  
  
“Really, dear, no time to explain,” Aziraphale snapped, studying Crowley’s expression and finding him deteriorating extremely quickly. He must have been holding it together in front of Lucifer. If there was one thing the Lord of Hell would recognize and pounce on with fury... it was weakness.  
  
“Probably best for you to stay away as well,” Aziraphale added, placing his free hand against Crowley’s chest to keep him upright and earning a gasp of pain as he found another wound, which began to slowly soak his hand with blood.  
  
Penny disappeared for only a few seconds, and Aziraphale was too distracted to hear the _clang_ as she chucked the rosary into the hall with gusto. However, she quickly returned, against Aziraphale’s immediate protests.  
  
She dropped to her knees, helping to support Crowley again.  
  
“I’m not leaving, Aziraphale!” she yelled as he rocketed through more rushed protests. “I’m helping. Accept it.”  
  
Aziraphale sighed, feeling a pulse in Crowley’s aura, and the demon cried out, trying once more to collapse.  
  
“Oh, my dear... don’t do that, _please_ don’t do that,” Aziraphale begged, feeling the demon’s will to fight it sapping quickly. “Can you stand?” he asked, motioning with his head at Penny to try to get him to the bedroom.  
  
Crowley viciously nodded ‘no,’ choking in a breath and gasping “wings.”  
  
“Hold him,” Aziraphale commanded of the girl, relinquishing his hold on Crowley and leaning back.  
  
Aziraphale let out a wounded sound at the sight: Crowley’s midnight wings were hanging limply behind him, and their shredded lengths wasn’t even the worst part. The joints where they met his spine appeared to have been twisted horrendously, and if there weren’t broken or fractured bones involved, it would be a miracle. The skin was split on the outsides, and it was clear by the swollen flesh that several tendons had been torn in the process.  
  
“Oh, God,” Aziraphale whimpered, reaching out and barely touching.  
  
Crowley screamed, the sound shrill and unholy. The demon lurched forward then, choking and gagging as if he might vomit.  
  
“I’m so sorry...” Aziraphale murmured, yanking his hand back. Injured wings were the worst possible wound an angel or demon could take, and they were by far the most painful. The angel knew this quite personally, the recent break in his own twinging through his spine even now. They were some of the most permanent, too. While injuries in their corporations could be healed with enough power, wings were more difficult. Wings were connected directly to their divinity, or in Crowley’s case, former divinity. At a certain point, wings couldn’t be healed. There was a reason Lucifer no longer had his...  
  
“Crowley, this is going to be agonizing, but I need you to hide them,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning forward once more and holding Crowley delicately by the shoulder. “I can’t deal with them right now; I need to concentrate on your body. Please...”  
  
Crowley maniacally began to nod ‘no.’  
  
His lips hung open in an attempt to speak, but all that came was a yelp and a wince. He growled in frustration before trying again.  
  
“Using a—all my power to k—keep myself together. Can’t divert it, angel. Can’t—” he stuttered, his shivering worsening into near convulsions.  
  
“I know, I know,” Aziraphale cooed, rubbing his temple in his worry.  
  
“Can’t you help? Heal him?” Penny asked quickly.  
  
“Well, I certainly would like to try, but… I don’t think he could take the divine nature of it right now. Normally he’s strong enough, but...”  
  
He trailed off, not wishing to finish the sentence. The mere presence of his rosary had prompted a reaction, so divine essence itself... it would probably sap what was left of the demon.  
  
“Come on, Crowley. The wings. _You must_,” Aziraphale begged, tightening his grip on Crowley’s shoulder.  
  
Crowley growled, his whole body tensing as he prepared to try. His teeth bared, and his eyes squeezed shut tight. His grip on Aziraphale’s shirt tightened even more, and the angel desperately wished he could help him. He settled for monitoring Crowley’s aura, which was severely weak and barely radiating from him.  
  
Crowley let out a pitiful cry as his wings disappeared from sight, leaving only two torn and bloody holes in his shirt. No sooner had he done so, every wound on him opened up like flood gates, blood seeping through his clothing in worrisome volumes. Crowley’s eyes rolled, his fist going slack against Aziraphale’s back, and his whole body collapsed. Aziraphale caught him, but he was completely limp; his aura... not detectable.  
  
“No!” Aziraphale yelped, slowly allowing the demon to slump to the floor with a supporting hand behind his neck. “No no no, Crowley!”  
  
Penny yelped suddenly, grasping her temples and flailing onto her back on the floor.  
  
“Crowley, release her, come on. You can get through this. Come back,” he demanded, daring to place a hand on the demon’s chest, using whatever power he could, the consequences be damned.  
  
Aziraphale felt healing energy flow from his hands and into the demon’s chest. The bleeding slowed, a few of the lesser wounds closing entirely. Penny gasped, her hands falling away from her head as clarity filled her eyes. She sat up, confusion playing across her features.  
  
Aziraphale didn’t have time to devote to her. He looked down, finding that Crowley had opened his eyes, but with it came all the pain of returning to his body. He seized up, an animalistic whimper escaping, one hand flailing out toward the angel.  
  
Aziraphale grabbed it, holding it tight.  
  
“Be still, Crowley, please let me try to help you,” he begged, but it was obviously too much. Crowley’s spine arched him off the floor, and he let out a desperate cry, followed by wet and bloody choking.  
  
Penny launched to her feet, running for Crowley’s bathroom.  
  
“Do drugs work on you guys?” she called, and the angel heard rustling.  
  
“Yes,” he answered weakly. “But I doubt he’s got any.”  
  
“Oh, I’m willing to bet he does,” she snapped back, the sound of bottles hitting the countertop spilling from the bathroom.  
  
He clung to Crowley’s hand comfortingly, his other hovering over a wound in his right side that was releasing a whistling sound as Crowley used breathing as a coping mechanism—_the whistling meant a punctured lung_. Not as deadly for something that didn’t need to breathe, but... it certainly wasn’t good.  
  
Crowley’s aura pulsated before dimming again, and Aziraphale paused. Healing it would be another rush of divine energy, and the demon was weak... possibly too weak to withstand it.  
  
“Bollocks,” Aziraphale cursed, his hand retreating back as Penny came bolting back into the room and slid on her knees to his side.  
  
“Ketamine,” she said, holding up a syringe filled with a clear but hazy liquid. “Should do the trick. At least... so we can move him.”  
  
Aziraphale wasn’t sure what good moving him was going to do at this point. If he tried to heal Crowley while he was doped up on ketamine, he could discorporate, and they wouldn’t even know. He wouldn’t react, he’d just be... gone.  
  
Or worse, he’d possess Penny again.  
  
Before he could put any of that to voice, though, Penny had ripped Crowley’s sleeve up and injected him.  
  
He let out a pitiful whine, his convulsions slowing and his muscles going slack. His hand on Aziraphale’s was the last thing to release, and it almost broke the angel’s heart.  
  
“I’ve got him,” Aziraphale said as he slowly slid his hands beneath Crowley’s shoulders and knees, lifting him as gently as possible. His head rolled back dangerously, and Aziraphale ignored it as best he could as he walked gingerly to the bedroom. He was sickeningly aware of the streams of blood running down the demon’s arms and off his slackened fingers, leaving rivers that followed his path.  
  
He clicked his teeth worriedly as he set Crowley’s dangerously limp body on his black comforter.  
  
“Penny... there is something you can do,” he said, angry that he needed her help.  
  
“Anything, what?” the girl asked, stepping forward and wringing her hands nervously.  
  
“I’m going to try to heal a few of these,” he said slowly. The divinity of healing was just as likely to discorporate Crowley as the wounds were, but at this point… he had no choice. “I need you to touch him, monitor him. I can’t even detect his aura anymore. If you feel him slipping, tell me to stop,” he asked, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.  
  
Penny nodded, dropping to her knees next to the bed and taking Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale sighed, letting his hands hover over the puncture wound afflicting his lung. He nodded, letting the power flow to his palms.  
  
Immediately, he could feel Crowley’s reaction in the air. He was searching again, his natural demonic entity retreating from the divine.  
  
“It's alright, Crowley, it’s just me,” he said, unsure of why he even spoke the words. It wasn’t as if he could hear them.  
  
Penny smiled at the angel suddenly, her hand jerking against Crowley’s.  
  
“He heard you,” she said, genuine care showing in her features. The demonic activity in the air lessened, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin bitterly.  
  
The happiness was short-lived, however. A loud _pop_ filled the air as Aziraphale mended a broken rib, and Penny yelped.  
  
“Stop stop stop!” she cried, her hand grasping Crowley’s so tight, her knuckles whitened. “I can barely feel him,” she continued, closing her eyes as she spoke.  
  
Aziraphale nodded, yanking his hands and his power back. Crowley’s body was beginning to shiver again, despite the drugs.  
  
“Shit,” Aziraphale cursed, for the third time ever. “See if you can find some blankets, would you?” he asked of Penny.  
  
She stood, releasing the demon’s hand and hurrying to every closet she could find.  
  
Aziraphale teetered nervously back and forth from one foot to the other, helpless to stop this. Crowley was suffering, on the verge of discorporating, and there was little he could do.  
  
Penny returned, tossing the blankets furiously over Crowley.  
  
“He’s not cold, Aziraphale,” she said worriedly. “He’s lost too much blood. He’s going into shock.”  
  
“I know,” Aziraphale replied hastily, still rubbing his temples. In a better state, Crowley could easily fix it, or slow it at least. But as he was, his power was nonexistent. The only option he had was to stop the bleeding.  
  
“I have to keep going,” he said, stepping forward once more. “You need to leave.”  
  
Penny immediately launched into her arguments, but Aziraphale yelled over her.  
  
“Penelope, if he possesses you, all the progress we just made will be lost. You won’t survive it. And I can’t be witness to that as well. _Please go!” _  
  
“He already tried earlier, and I’m still here, still fine,” Penny snapped back. “I know what to expect now. I’m stronger than you think, angel, and I can do this. If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to drag me out.”  
  
Aziraphale huffed, knowing that the girl’s determined attitude was a product of His design. _You certainly made this one tough, _ he thought, smiling a little.  
  
“Fine,” Aziraphale snapped, stepping forward once more. He pointed a blood-covered finger at Crowley’s hand, and Penny knelt, taking it in her own. Her brows immediately furrowed harshly, and she looked up at the angel with panic in her features.  
  
“Aziraphale... he’s barely...” she whispered.  
  
He groaned in frustration, nodding. “I know.”  
  
He let his hands hover over Crowley’s chest again, light beginning to pour from them. The demon’s body arched, and Penny yelped as his hand tightened on hers painfully.  
  
“Stop,” Penny begged quietly, her voice pained as if she were sharing Crowley’s pain. In fact... she probably was.  
  
“I can’t,” Aziraphale replied, his heart torn. “I have to keep going.”  
  
“Angel, he’s...” Penny began, but there was a sudden growl in the air. The girl screamed, thrashing back and against the wall. Her limbs splayed out beside her, her pupils expanding and making her eyes go black.  
  
Aziraphale let out a tortured whimper, ignoring the poor girl as best he could and continuing to heal Crowley. And it wasn’t easy. There were lacerations all over him, probably thirty or so, all deep enough to warrant internal healing. And he was only halfway done.  
  
When Penny spoke, it was unnatural and... unholy.  
  
“Stop, please... _I’m begging you, _” her lips said, but it clearly wasn’t her.  
  
“Just hold on, a little longer,” Aziraphale replied, not looking up at Penny’s possessed form as he continued moving his hands over the wounds.  
  
From his periphery, he saw her collapse to her knees, grasping her temples.  
  
“I’m scared, angel...”  
  
Aziraphale felt his heart nearly torn in two.   
“Few more minutes,” Aziraphale groaned, feeling his own power stretching thin.  
  
“Don’t want to go, angel. _Please don’t let me go...” _Penny’s voice said again.  
  
“I won’t. Just try not to hurt her,” Aziraphale said, leaving some of the lesser wounds and only going for the awful ones. The longer Penny stayed possessed, the less of her would return when it was over. Demonic possession was nothing like angelic. It was meant to be intrusive, destructive.  
  
Aziraphale felt his hands falter, the light coming from them dimming as his own power was almost spent.  
  
“Come on,” he growled, pouring his strength into one last wound; mangled flesh and a broken femur.  
  
Aziraphale gasped, falling back against the wall and feeling faint. “Re—release her, Crowley, now. You have to.”  
  
Another growl filled the room, and the girl collapsed to the hardwood floor, completely limp and unmoving. Crowley himself began breathing laboriously, pained whines escaping on every exhale. The drugs were still working on him, but not enough to keep him sedated. His eyes hung open, the gold glowing with pain.  
  
Aziraphale was torn between his two charges, electing to crawl to Penny, pulling her into his lap.  
  
“Penelope. Wake up, please,” he whispered, shaking her shoulders gently. She groaned, a trembling hand reaching up to grasp her forehead.  
  
“‘S he—okay?” she mumbled.  
  
Aziraphale let out a frantic half-laugh. The girl had just been forcefully possessed, and she was worried about the demon who did it.  
  
“He’s... still here,” Aziraphale replied, reaching for one of the blankets she had dropped on the floor and wrapping it around her. “Rest my dear. You did well.”  
  
She gave a little “mmhmm” in reply, pulling the blanket closer as she curled into it on the floor.  
  
Aziraphale stood, feeling his own corporation weak and tired from the exertion. He stumbled to the bedside, sitting next to Crowley as he panted like an overheated dog. His long forked tongue kept darting out in a show of his discomfort, angry hisses accompanying it.  
  
“Alright?” Aziraphale asked, laying a hand on Crowley’s wrist. The demon jerked at the contact, his eyes opening weakly.  
  
“I don’t know,” Crowley replied, trying to take a deep breath and only managing to choke and whimper in pain.  
  
“Sleep, you need it,” Aziraphale responded. “I’ll make sure you don’t go anywhere.”  
  
Crowley looked like he wanted to respond, but his eyelids grew heavy, and within seconds, he was asleep.  
  
  
Aziraphale let both Crowley and Penelope rest for almost 24 hours. And while Penny scarcely moved, Crowley was a different story. His aura returned with a vengeance as he slept, and Aziraphale could feel it through the entire apartment—it was dense and suffocating to the angel’s, but he knew why. Crowley wasn’t certain he could survive his injuries, and nothing could make a demon stronger than everything he was feeling in response to that knowledge; panic, claustrophobia, and of course pain.  
  
Aziraphale knelt next to Penny after the sun went down, gently rocking her.  
  
“Penny... _Penny_,” he crowed, glad to see her stir.  
  
She slowly sat up with a groan, her hair tousled from pressing into the blanket she had burrowed into.  
  
“What... what happened?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.  
  
“What do you remember?” the angel asked, hoping she had forgotten.  
  
“Lucifer... he left... I went and got the Ketamine... what happened after that, how did we get in here?” she asked hurriedly, peering up at Crowley’s still trembling form on the bed.  
  
So she didn’t recall the possessions... that was certainly for the best... though Aziraphale wasn’t sure what other damage she might have suffered besides memory loss. Whatever it was... it would have to wait. The girl needed to leave before he did what he was planning on doing next.  
  
“I’m sorry, Penny, but this time I really need you to leave,” he whispered, offering a hand to help her up. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet as she teetered unsteadily.  
  
“I need to tend to his wings, and those... they’re... well, he’s not going to react well,” he said, apprehension rising in his throat. Demons didn’t let angels touch their wings, ever, and vice versa. Add to that Crowley’s depleted state and tremendous pain... he would probably lash out. An angel could take it. A human couldn’t.  
  
“Are—are you sure I can’t help?” she asked, attempting to tame her wild hair.  
  
“I’m sure, sweetheart. But I very much appreciate your concern. And I’m sure Crowley would too if he wasn’t...”  
  
“If he wasn’t Crowley?” she asked sarcastically, grinning at the angel.  
  
He returned it, resting a hand on her arm. “Yes,” he said softly. “Now please...”  
  
He motioned for the door, and she obliged, shuffling forward.  
  
“I’ll... I’ll check back with you... later...” she mumbled, disappearing from the bedroom, the flat’s front door clicking closed soon after.  
  
Aziraphale steeled himself as he turned, facing the tormented demon. He had pitched sideways, curling in on himself as his body continued to shiver against the slow healing. Aziraphale stepped forward, resting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He jerked, his eyelashes fluttering as he let out an anticipatory whimper.  
  
“Crowley, it’s me,” he said quietly, pushing on his shoulder gently. “Come this way. I need to look at your wings.”  
  
Crowley obliged the movement, but let out a sound that might have been a muttered ‘no.’  
  
“Think you can summon them?” Aziraphale asked, running a hand over the demon’s back as he lay on his stomach. As his fingertips brushed where his wings would be, Crowley growled, tensing and gripping the sheets in his hands.  
  
“Leave them, angel,” Crowley whispered, a hint of very childlike fear tinting his words.  
  
“You know we can’t do that,” Aziraphale said, leaving his hand on Crowley’s back, searching for any damage that may have extended to his spine. Crowley arched away from his touch, a threatening hiss escaping his lips.  
  
Aziraphale wanted to chastise him, but knew the fear he was feeling. When Hastur had broken his own wing, something animalistic in him had taken over, protecting his divine appendages with an almost mindless fervor. He’d barely allowed Crowley to touch it, something in him wishing to strike the demon, even though he’d been trying to help.  
  
“I know, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, attempting to sneak a bit of healing powers into the demon where his hand was resting.  
  
Crowley yelped, his hands grasping the sheets harder as he bit down on the pillow beneath him.  
  
“Come on. The sooner we can get it done, the sooner it will be over,” he tried, feeling small pops beneath his fingertips as nerves and tendons in Crowley’s back mended.   
  
Crowley growled, attempting to move away. “Just let them rot. Don’t use them anyway,” he snapped, his eyes beginning to glow red as he turned to look at Aziraphale.  
  
“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastised, removing his hand. “You don’t mean that!”  
  
Of course he didn’t. He was just afraid of the pain.  
  
Crowley didn’t respond, instead burying his face in the pillow. He let out an anguished cry, the sound muffled in the fabric, and suddenly his wings burst into the open room.


	2. The Devil's Departure, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley recalls what Lucifer did to him.  
Chapter warnings: violence/torture.

Crowley couldn’t help the scream that tore out of his throat as his wings returned, and all the pain with them.  
  
With them hidden away, the damage registered as a distant ache—a memory of a pain that just burned in the back of his mind, behind the eyes. But it all came flooding back and slammed into him like a ton of bricks as he called them into the open.  
  
Normally they would have stayed upright on their own, but as their weight dragged on the joints, his muscles seized and spasmed, and they fell to the sides. He cried out again as they did, the pull on his spine recalling the memory of how it had happened.  
  
**_“YOU WERE ONE OF MY BEST, CROWLEY.”_**  
  
_Unnatural hands closed around the joints of his wings and Crowley yelped, itching to pull away._  
  
**_“SUCH BEAUTY, SUCH TALENT. WASTED ON A DEMON THAT SHOWS RESTRAINT. A DEMON WITH RIGHTEOUS WEAKNESSES. A DEMON THAT RELISHES THE COMPANY OF AN ANGEL.”_**  
  
_The hands began to squeeze, and he whimpered, feeling Lucifer lean in next to his ear, licking the flesh of his neck, following the artery in a very threatening way._  
  
**_“NOW YOU MAY SPEAK. EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”_**  
  
_As orders went, ‘explain yourself’ was rather vague, and left the extent of details up to Crowley himself. He thought hard before speaking, knowing that what he said could influence the severity of his own punishment._  
  
_“I—I liked it here. I enjoyed my job on earth, tempting humans. I wanted to keep doing it...”_  
  
_He paused as the hands holding the joints of his wings began to twist them, torturously slowly. It didn’t even hurt at first._  
  
_Crowley felt his voice change a few notes in response, but he kept on anyway._  
  
_“I tempted the angel to try and help me, to—to...”_  
  
_He paused, his muscles beginning to protest as they reached their limits._  
  
_“Please, Lucifer, please don’t...” he begged, a spasm running the length of his spine. He could almost hear the bones and sinew beginning to creak._  
  
**_“DID I SAY YOU COULD SPEAK FREELY?”_**  
  
_The point was driven home with a quicker twist, and Crowley heard the first pop and felt a flash like lightning run down his left side, through his ribs._  
_He yelped, nodding an obedient ‘no,’ before continuing._  
  
_“The two of us devised a way to ensure that Adam...”_  
  
_Lucifer growled in response to the name, twisting again. Two more pops, two more flashes of white hot searing pain running the length of his spine. Crowley wasn’t able to stop his innate response as he lurched forward in an attempt to pull out of Lucifer’s grasp._  
  
_Lucifer practically roared as he did, yanking him back by his wings, which screamed in protest._  
  
**_“DON’T MOVE.”_**  
  
_The command sunk in, and Crowley felt himself stiffen, despite a deeply-rooted need to flee._  
  
**_“WELL? CONTINUE.”_**  
  
_Crowley tensed, expecting pain but getting still hands and deep, nauseating breaths._  
  
_“We devised a plan to ensure that the child avoided influence. From both sides.”_  
_He cried out as the hands began slowly twisting again, but the order to remain still kept him completely statuesque; unable to react or pull away._  
  
**_“SO YOU DELIBERATELY DISOBEYED ME?”_**  
  
_Crowley felt more tendons pop, heard another bone break. Spots flashed in his vision as this wave of sparks traveled down his spine. He growled viciously, grinding his teeth against it. He could feel hot tears falling down his cheeks, and actively focused on making them stop. Lucifer wouldn’t appreciate such a show of weakness._  
  
_“No, my Lord,” Crowley dared to respond, feeling himself begin to shiver beyond his own control. “I simply allowed the angel to thwart my efforts, and he did likewise. Technically... we just failed to do as you instructed.”_  
  
_Lucifer roared his disapproval, twisting hard._  
  
_Crowley screamed, his vision completely blacking out. All of his senses failed, while simultaneously hyper-focusing. He could see nothing but blinding white pain, smell nothing but the metallic aroma of his own blood and sweat. His ears rang with the pops and snaps his body made. And he could taste only a coppery essence against his tongue as his teeth chattered as if he’d been left in the cold._  
  
**_“YOU DARE TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME?! YOU DARE SUGGEST THAT YOUR TREASON IS NO SUCH THING? THAT YOU DIDN’T BETRAY ME, BUT INSTEAD FELL VICTIM TO HOLY MEDDLING? DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL, CROWLEY? DO YOU?!”_**  
  
_He violently released the joints, but Crowley suddenly felt piercing points as long, extended claws impaled the wide lengths of his wings, ripping through muscles, tissue, and bones alike._  
  
_It was utterly unbearable—the intensity of the pain making it nearly impossible to react. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t pull away. Lucifer began pulling against the fresh holes in his wings, dragging out the wounds._  
  
_Crowley didn’t consciously make the decision, but he acted regardless, his self-preservation overriding his bonds of servitude._  
  
_He abandoned his body, becoming pure aura, searching for any human entity nearby that he could hijack. He was blind and senseless, a feeling of cold sinking into him as he floated through pure ethereal mass. Darkness, cold, and weightlessness..._  
  
_There._  
  
_Nearby, a pulsing warmth that signified a human. He launched for it, but felt himself halted mid-transition. Something pulled at him, and with a furious snap, he found himself back in his own agonized body._  
  
**_“YOU DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE THAT EASY TO ESCAPE ME, DID YOU?”_**  
  
_Crowley whimpered his helplessness, looking down to find an unimaginable amount of puncture wounds littering his body. He could feel them as he settled back into his corporation, their damage thorough and effective. He coughed, a spray of blood covering his lips. His clothing was soaking with his blood, and he could already tell that it was too much—too much for a human body to survive. Something in him began to panic, and the first thought that crossed his mind was—_  
  
_Aziraphale._  
  
_He wanted to cry out, scream for the angel. Scream for his help._  
  
**_“NOW... LET’S DISCUSS THAT ANGEL, SHALL WE...”_**  
  
_Lucifer yanked Crowley’s wings back hard, snapping them together and pinning them there by impaling them with his feet-long claws. _

***

Aziraphale had expected a visceral reaction, but... not this.  
  
Crowley growled loud and low, his form suddenly changing as he leapt from the bed and retreated to the nearest wall, his limp and mangled wings following. Aziraphale tried to protest, but it fell on deaf and panicking—probably not even sane—ears.  
  
The demon’s form fully changed then, long snake-like fangs extending as he hissed hard. His eyes glowed monstrously red, long claws extending from his fingers. He swiped blindly in Aziraphale’s direction, a low rumble filling the flat as he stumbled from the bed, slamming his back into the nearest bedroom corner. His aura screamed of defensiveness, and he hardly reacted as his destroyed wings were slammed between him and the wall.  
  
His aura pulsed with raw demonic power, and Aziraphale gasped as it hit him in the chest like a wrecking ball. He stumbled back, his natural instinct to counter it with his own holy barrier.  
  
Crowley hissed again as the divinity sliced through his aura, and his knees buckled, sending him sliding down the wall to curl in on himself, burying his head in his clawed hands with a pitiful whine. His bloody wings crumpled behind him, and he began letting out labored and struggling breaths.  
  
Aziraphale chastised himself for retaliating, even if it hadn’t been on purpose. Crowley’s aura was still incredibly weak, and he had just diminished it yet again.  
  
“Crowley, can you hear me?” he tried, stepping forward. A very threatening growl split the silence, but Aziraphale ignored it as he slowly stepped forward, kneeling in front of his crumpled and broken friend.  
  
He raised a hand to rest on Crowley’s wrist, but the demon snapped a hiss at him, his bright red eyes unfocused and confused.  
  
“Crowley, my dear... it’s me,” he said quietly, his hand finally coming to rest on the demon’s trembling arm. He jerked at the contact, but didn’t swipe at him this time.  
  
His hands fell away from his face, and the expression that met the angel’s eyes was heartbreaking.  
  
His golden eyes had returned and gleamed with agonized tears. His lips were trembling, his forked tongue snapping out in a display of his stress. His claws receded, but his fangs were slower to do so.  
  
“I know, my dear. Come on, to your feet,” he offered a hand, flinching as Crowley’s extremely cold fingers rested in his palm.  
  
He used his other hand to grasp the demon’s underarm, leveraging his own weight as he pulled Crowley to his feet.  
  
The demon seized up as his wounded wings followed him, his hand squeezing the angel’s so hard, he worried he’d broken the bones within. Crowley yelped, his knees buckling and threatening to send him back to the floor.  
  
Aziraphale was quicker—wrapping his arms beneath Crowley’s, holding him upright as he shook and tried to recover.  
  
“Easy does it, dear,” he whispered, his soul aching for his friend. He’d never seen him quite this bad off, which was saying something.  
  
He felt Crowley nod as he leaned against him, his body tensing. “Just do it. Before I stop you,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder.  
  
The angel didn’t hesitate. Keeping Crowley supported, he curled his arms to rest his palms on the joints of his wings, trying to flow the healing energy as gently as possible.  
  
Through the exchange of energy, he could practically see and feel the damage—ruptured tendons on every side of the bone, broken ligaments, torn muscle, fractured bones. Aziraphale’s breath hitched in his throat, feeling his own wings tingle with empathy, despite being hidden away.  
  
He steeled himself, reaching with his mind for the damaged bones first and slowly beginning to mend them. A sound filled the air like cracking ice on a wintry lake, and Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands ball into fists against his back, gathering handfuls of his coat.  
  
Crowley began to shake tremendously, burying his head against Aziraphale’s neck as his legs gave out again. He held the angel tightly, and Aziraphale was happy to oblige him, supporting his entire weight when it fell against him.  
  
Once the bones were mended, Aziraphale turned his focus to the ligaments and tendons at the joints, knowing it would burn like hellfire.  
  
“Deep breath, my dear,” he asked, and the demon obeyed, his breath wavering unsteadily.  
  
Crowley cried out as Aziraphale began his healing, beginning to pull away.  
  
“Stop, angel, _please stop... _” Crowley begged, his voice disturbingly small.  
  
It broke Aziraphale’s heart to hold on, but he knew if he stopped now, it would do more harm than good. That, and the demon would probably never allow him to start up again.  
  
“I’m sorry, Crowley,” he whispered, holding him tight as he poured more healing energy into the joints.  
  
More pops filled the air, and suddenly the wings were upright, positioned naturally. Crowley screamed as they did, and Aziraphale gasped, feeling stinging pain in his back, where Crowley’s hands were grasping him, and in his neck, undoubtedly where the demon’s fangs had just sunk into his flesh.  
  
“Just one—one more,” Aziraphale gasped, still feeling Crowley’s claws and teeth attacking him.  
  
He focused on the torn and pulled muscles, suturing them back together like magnet ends.  
  
Crowley made a tortured sound against the angel’s neck, and he wasn’t sure if the wetness he felt on his skin was his own blood, or... tears.  
  
“Alright, it’s over,” he cooed, and Crowley collapsed in every way. His claws and fangs receded, prodding a yelp from the angel.  
  
He spun, still supporting Crowley’s weight, slowly letting him slump onto the bed. He lay awkwardly on his side for a moment before curling into a fetal position, his wings flared out behind him and brushing against the black silk headboard. A monstrous shudder coursed him, from head to toes, and he made another defeated noise.  
  
Aziraphale gathered the many blankets, throwing them over him hurriedly.  
  
“I’m so sorry, love,” he muttered, watching the demon’s twisted features as he twitched and bared against the receding pain.  
  
  
The waters were rough for almost a week, so to speak. Crowley had burrowed into his sheets, shivering and moaning in pain as he continued to heal. Aziraphale wanted to help him—heal the rest of them so that he could finally rest. But healing his wings had drained every ounce of power the demon had left. And any bit of divinity, no matter how small or gentle, would only hurt him.  
  
Aziraphale stayed at his side most of time, except on a few occasions. First, to sneak to the bathroom to clean himself up. There was blood staining his clothing at the neck and across his back where Crowley’s teeth and claws had inadvertently attacked him. The injuries themselves had healed quite quickly, despite their demonic nature, because Aziraphale himself was at almost full strength (the only hindrance being his own still-healing broken wing).  
  
He had stood in Crowley’s magnificent and indulgent chrome and stone bathroom, studying his own blood as he miracled it from his shirt and coat. He knew Crowley was just mindlessly reacting to the pain, but something else was eating at the angel; why was the power to heal the demon even granted? His power didn’t always require permission from above; in fact it rarely did. If it did, Aziraphale would end up getting chastised a bit more than he’d care to admit. But they did monitor _how_ he was using it, so certainly they would know?  
  
Healing a demon... that would not be allowed. Ever.  
  
It had made sense when Penny was present—permission was given because the girl would have been in danger of possession otherwise. But... Crowley’s wings. The girl was gone, and yet... the power still came when he needed it.  
  
Above hadn’t even let him heal his own broken wing... why... _why_ would they change their minds?  
  
Aziraphale mumbled to himself as he miracled his clothes clean and mended, then bustled about the flat, cleaning up.  
  
His mind raced with questions as he swept the ashes of the pentagram from the stone floors, scrubbed dried blood from the grout. He could have just miracled it clean, but... he needed to think.  
  
After scooping up every black feather Crowley had lost, Aziraphale shuffled into the hall outside to retrieve his rosary from where Penny had tossed it. He stayed in the living room, as far from Crowley as he could get, sitting tensely on the edge of Crowley’s plush leather couch.  
  
He sighed, holding the Rosary in both hands and closing his eyes.  
  
“Hello,” he started, the absurdity of the simple greeting not lost on him. “Sorry to disturb you, I know you’ve many more important souls to listen to...”  
  
He paused, rolling the beads on the rosary between his fingers.  
  
“I just, erm... I’ve been thinking. I know you’ve seen what I’ve done, I know you allowed me to do it. And I’ve been wondering why for several days. First I thought maybe you allowed it because of the proximity of other humans... because of the danger to them. But... that danger is always present. Then I really thought about it... my motivations behind it.”  
  
He paused, taking a deep breath.  
  
“He’s not vicious, Crowley,” Aziraphale started up again, his voice smaller. “He’s not like the lot of Them. Bit of a knob, but otherwise just a very mischievous and impish soul... well, you know. He was yours, once.”  
  
Aziraphale paused again, worried about his words but speaking them anyway.  
  
“We’ve been together on earth for six thousand years, him and I. I know you’re very aware of how... well, of...”  
  
He sighed, wishing to admit what was true, to confess it, but worrying about implicating himself.  
  
“Of how close we became,” he finished finally with an anxious clearing of his throat. “And I know that what I say is... treasonous, blasphemy. But...”  
  
He sighed again, feeling drained just from speaking the words out loud.  
  
“I really don’t know why I’m speaking to you right now. I don’t expect an answer. I don’t really even suspect you’re listening. I just... well... I suppose I wanted to give you justification, even though I know you don’t need it. Whatever power is given to me, explains itself. It’s just... the thought of him... being punished for all eternity for something that _we did_ together... the thought of him suffering for something that I was just as culpable for, it... I just couldn’t bear it. The only thing he was truly guilty of was enjoying life, falling victim to a real_ passion _for it, and that’s not so bad, is it? Why should he bear the burden of what we did, while I... while I...”  
  
He paused, afraid of suggesting that he’d been let off the hook when it wasn’t clear yet that he had.  
  
“And then I bore witness to a small taste of what he would endure, and it broke my heart, it really did. His screams, his desperation. But he still refused to let me be taken with him. He was protecting me, and I think you’ll agree that that was incredibly noble of him. You see I... I..._ love_ that pestering demon, I really do. And you’ve probably known that much longer than I have. That’s probably why you gave me the power to heal him, and... if you want to punish me for it, I will gladly submit to your will. But please know that everything I did, everything I continue to do...”  
  
He paused, shocked to find tears beginning to fall down his cheeks. He took a shuddering breath, wiping his face and quickly returning his hand to the rosary.  
  
“I did out of love.”  
  
He sighed, rubbing a temple as he realized he was rambling. “Well, I guess... I just wanted to say... _thank you._”  
  
He sat quietly, turning the rosary over and over in his hands for a long time, its weight simultaneously reassuring and worrisome.  
  
Crowley’s television suddenly split into the silence, and Aziraphale turned to find a muted black and white glow in the form of an old film favorite, Charlie Chaplin’s _The Great Dictator._ Briefly, Aziraphale was reminded that he had wept upon seeing the film in 1940, inspired and awed by one of the greatest speeches he’d ever heard.  
  
This, however, was not that speech. It was the ravishing starlet Paulette Goddard, addressing the man before her with relief across her pretty features.  
  
“It's all right now. They've gone.”  
  
Aziraphale stood slowly, approaching the television and listening intently.  
  
“Thanks, mister! Ah, that did me a lot of good. You sure got nerve the way you fought back! That's what we should all do. Fight back! We can't fight alone; but, we can lick 'em together! We didn't do so bad, did we?”  
  
Aziraphale slowly smiled, clutching his rosary to his heart as the TV suddenly went dark as abruptly as it had flickered on.  
  
“Thank you,” he said heavily. He gently placed his rosary atop the TV set, quietly shuffling back to Crowley’s bedroom.  
  
The demon was shifting uncomfortably, his wings fluttering a bit as he curled tighter into a ball in his sheets, pained whimpers escaping as he did.  
  
“Hush, now, dear,” Aziraphale whispered gently, pulling up a decorative armchair and forcing his fingers into one of Crowley’s clenched fists. He relaxed, but his hand grasped Aziraphale’s almost painfully tight.  
  
“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”


	3. The Enigma of a Worn-Down Shoe Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale snoops through Crowley's desk (with his permission, ofc), and finds that his demon is a bit more sentimental than previously assumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot chapter following Crowley's recovery. Can be read alone. Chapter rating is Gen, no warnings. No OC. A brief moment of angst, recalled in a memory.

Aziraphale absently checked his tarnished gold pocket watch for the time as the frosted chrome lift climbed ever higher. For all intents and purposes, the old watch should have stopped long ago. It had been dropped, stepped on, spilled on, and even went into the North Atlantic along with its attached angel in 1912. But he expected it to tell the correct time, so it did.  
  
5:42.  
  
Aziraphale smiled happily at his own punctuality. Depending on how long the ride up to the eleventh floor took, he would be arriving at Crowley’s rosewood front door precisely one minute earlier than he’d said he would.  
  
His mind wandered as he stared at his own blurred reflection in the lift doors, mainly to the fact that he could count on two hands the number of times he’d come to Crowley. This was a wrong that, until it was noticed sometime after the non-apocalypse, went mainly unmentioned, but it was one he was desperately trying to right. He couldn’t believe he’d been so daft. He’d really just assumed that the reason Crowley always came to him was because he had a car, liked said car, enjoyed driving it, and it was just more convenient that way, wasn’t it?  
  
It had occurred to the angel, after much longer than he’d care to admit, that if Crowley wasn’t so diligently initiating contact, that they probably wouldn’t have seen each other very much. Not because Aziraphale didn’t wish it, or because he found it tedious—in fact it was the opposite. Aziraphale had a tendency to get wrapped in whatever was consuming him at the time (orders from above, a new book collection needing restoration, or simply taking care of the shop). He would allow the time to get away from him, given that he never slept, and Crowley’s intrusions were often a very welcome reminder to take a break, breathe easy, and enjoy himself.  
  
Crowley had never taken offense when they separated for long periods of time, after all that kind of annoyance would get bothersome after 6 millennia. But this habit of self-seclusion, it had recently occurred to Aziraphale, had probably been quite lonely for Crowley, just as Crowley’s century-long nap had been for Aziraphale. And the angel could, with painful accuracy, recall his desperate need for connection during those hundred years, and felt an awfully dreadful guilt for having imparted this kind of loneliness on the demon so often, and for such a very long time.  
  
He let out a little “ah!” as the lift rang out its declaration of arrival, the doors gliding swiftly and silently open. He hurried forward, taking the quick right to Crowley’s atrium, held up his hand to knock, and hesitated. Should he knock? Crowley certainly never did—barging into the bookshop like a stallion from a starting gate. But that was Crowley, and that was the bookshop, a public space (not for Aziraphale’s lack of trying). This was Aziraphale, a man-shaped being of manners, and this was a flat, a living space, a _home._ A place where someone might indulge in a bit of privacy. Although... privacy never really existed between the two of them, not where their bodies were concerned anyway. They were largely for show, and nudity was much more private for humans, given that these corporations weren’t actually their _true forms._ But... Crowley liked to _play_ human, so would the man he liked to think of himself as be affronted by the intrusion?  
  
Aziraphale’s hand hovered from the door to his side and back to the door, like a window-stunned bird who can’t decide where to land.  
  
“Bother...” he huffed.  
  
“S’open, angel! Quit your dithering and let yourself in!”  
  
Crowley’s voice was muted but clearly yelling, as if from deep inside the apartment.  
  
“Right...” Aziraphale responded, wondering as he did so why he was bothering to respond, as clearly Crowley was not standing just inside and wouldn’t have heard him. A rather pesky follow-up thought arose; why did he feel so nervous about this? These self-conscious concerns were rising in one-two punch fashion, as if they hadn’t known each other for six thousand years.  
  
After ensuring the door closed, quiet and polite, Aziraphale began wringing his hands as he peered about the flat. He’d been in it many times, naturally, but somehow always felt he was intruding. Crowley had changed a few things since he’d been in last—namely plants. One of the taller ones in the corner by the balcony was missing (probably disposed of in some gruesome, parading manner), and he’d added a plush reclining chair offset from the white sofa. It was stylish, yet the burgundy leather was clearly soft and welcoming, and it quite resembled Aziraphale’s own. The realization that this might have been precisely why Crowley purchased the thing hit Aziraphale in the gut like a swift balled fist.  
  
“Do tell me why you’re looking round like a dog that’s piddled on the floor?”  
  
Aziraphale grinned at the comparison, turning and misplacing his witty comeback as he found Crowley strolling with confidence from his bedroom to the adjacent bathroom, wearing nothing but his black trousers.  
  
The demon obviously took a moment to revel in Aziraphale’s dumbfounded expression before speaking.  
  
“Just gonna hop in a quick shower,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom but not closing the door.  
  
Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, Crowley, you said be here at 5:45. And you don’t even need to, you could just...”  
  
A frustrated sound echoed from inside the bathroom, and Crowley soon hung out of the door to hook the angel in a twisted and judgmental glare.  
  
“Come on angel, it’s not like we’ve got a schedule to keep, table will be available when we get there like it always is. Besides, I know I don’t _need_ to, but by that logic you don’t_ need_ to try this restaurant with me. It’s... “  
  
Crowley paused, but Aziraphale could practically hear the words that tailgated his teeth; “I just enjoy it angel, I shouldn’t have to explain why I enjoy things, least of all to you. Please don’t make me explain why I want certain things, _especially_ not to you...”  
  
Aziraphale nodded slightly apologetically, his tightly-pursed lips proving that he would not continue arguing.  
  
Crowley smiled, disappearing back into the bathroom and yet still not closing the door.  
  
“Great! I’ll be five minutes!” Crowley called, and Aziraphale heard the tap rush on.  
  
“Oh, _do_ be honest with yourself. You’ll be fifteen,” Aziraphale called with a grin. The water would be warm, and where those kinds of things were concerned, the Serpent tended to overindulge.  
  
“Touché, angel. Make yourself comfortable. Raid the wines, raid the fridge. Snoop around, for all I care. Although I’ll make it easy on you; the naughty bits and baubles are in the bedside.”  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped. “Thank you, my dear, you’ve just saved me _so much_ time and effort.”  
  
“Anything for you,” came the sarcastic reply, followed by the xylophone ring of a shower curtain.  
  
Aziraphale actually had no intention of going through Crowley’s _naughty things. _ He’d always assumed that Crowley indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, even where his own corporation was concerned. It really was his style, lust; a sin of immense pleasure and opulence, and yet the kind that didn’t often cause pain. All this considered, there wasn’t anything to find, really. Nothing Aziraphale hadn’t already assumed he had, anyway.  
  
Without the parental eyes of Crowley watching him, Aziraphale did wander a bit. He stopped first in the kitchen for a bit of Pinot Noire (Crowley would be driving to the restaurant, no need to waste an opportunity for a nice buzz).  
  
After that, he tested out the new recliner (it was indeed as soft and enveloping as it looked—practically begging to be curled up in with a book and some cocoa), then he made the rounds of plants (admiring and occasionally whispering little compliments). After that, he wandered to the study, feeling the brush of hot steam like a curtain as he passed by the open bathroom.  
  
The study was a small, dark room just to the right of Crowley’s bedroom. It was unadorned and unassuming; a long, presidential cherry wood desk in the middle, and a high-backed leather office chair beyond. With a nonchalant wave of his wine-free hand, Aziraphale switched on the chrome lamp on the desk’s surface, admiring its dust-free, clutter-free work area. A sleek black laptop lay closed in the center, but from past conversation, Aziraphale knew Crowley rarely, if ever used it.  
  
Aziraphale let out a sigh, plopping into the chair and letting out a rather unflattering squeal as it spun on impact. He clutched his wine to his chest protectively and let out a breathy “oh dear” as he waited patiently for the spinning to subside.  
  
When he finally found himself facing the desk, he wondered offhandedly if Crowley actually _used_ the thing. This curiosity prodded Aziraphale to set his wine glass on the desk (atop a coaster he found in the thin center drawer, he wasn’t a heathen, thank you very much), and begin opening drawers. The top one held the expected; ball-point pens, high-quality stationery, a fine sterling silver paper knife, wine-red letter wax, and a weighty brass letter stamp bearing the twisting serpent seal Aziraphale recalled seeing a lot of in the early 1900s.  
  
He grinned, mildly recalling a time when they would write to one another, and the human personas they’d written with just in case their correspondence was ever intercepted by above and below. They’d even developed a bit of code, if it could be called that, to refer to things like Heaven, Hell, and their superiors. If memory served, Aziraphale had used vague business terms to refer to his superiors, such as “my supervisor,” and “my boss.” He’d even referred to Gabriel as “Gabriella,” which had ended up looking like some kind of maid or secretary in the incognito language of the letter. Crowley had used military terms to refer to those above him in rank, and often referred to the Dark Lord Satan as “Lucy,” which had sent Aziraphale into a rather uncouth fit of giggles the first time he’d read it.  
  
In fact, now that he thought on it, if anyone _had_ intercepted their letters, it probably would have looked like two mates, one in the military, writing to one another about their “lady troubles” with a couple of frustrating hags named Gabriella and Lucy.  
  
Aziraphale snorted a laugh into his wine, setting it back onto the cork coaster and closing the top drawer. He pulled open the second, taller drawer in the middle, finding more of the expected; a box of neatly organized envelopes of many sizes, a small pile of stamps, and a paperweight that might have been a crane, might have been an angel. Aziraphale smiled, wondering why Crowley even kept these things. He could always just miracle up a letter, wish it written, and will it off to whomever it was for.  
  
Disheartened at the lack of anything telling, he closed the middle drawer, and went for the bottom one—the tallest. Most humans kept the bottom drawer full of filed papers; in fact Aziraphale himself did this with his meticulously organized tax documents.  
  
Which was why Aziraphale found himself furrowing his brow in shock when he found...  
  
An incredibly old and beaten-up London Shoe Co. Ltd. shoe box, neatly squared up with the back of the drawer. Aziraphale studied it curiously for a moment, taking the opportunity to sip his wine before replacing it on the desk and reaching for the box.  
  
The fact that it was, in fact, a _shoe_ box was incredibly flabbergasting, as Crowley never actually purchased clothing, preferring to simply will it onto his body. The suggestion here being, comically, that Crowley had either stolen _just the box_ from the retailer, leaving the item of value abandoned on a shelf somewhere, or he had willed into existence a very specific shoe box for the sole purpose (pun unintended but very welcome) of storing _not shoes. _ Or, Aziraphale could assume it wasn’t shoes, as who stores shoes in their original box _in a desk drawer. _  
  
He set the box delicately in his lap, noting that it was free of dust, and had thus presumably been handled recently. Either that, or Crowley dedicated a bit of his power to keeping the thing dust-free at all times, both options ratcheting Aziraphale’s curiosity ever higher, like a kite that’s escaped and is violently swishing through the sky shouting “I’m free!”  
  
With the utmost care, Aziraphale pulled the dented and scratched lid from the box, holding his breath unnecessarily as he did.  
  
What he found was... confusing; a mess of papers, postcards, photos, and trinkets.  
  
On the very top of the pile was a Ritz receipt. This in itself was massively confounding, because a) Crowley never paid, and if he did he more ‘convinced the server that he had paid, and tipped generously,’ or b) if he _did_ pay, willing the money into existence, then he certainly didn’t bother to keep receipts.  
  
Aziraphale studied it— the itemized section noting two extravagant three-course meals, one chicken and one beef, two bottles of wine, a full tray of mixed desserts, and one bottle of champagne.  
  
_Champagne. _  
  
They never ordered champagne unless they were celebrating something. That was the custom, after all.  
  
Aziraphale noted the date, and with a wide smile, realized why Crowley had likely saved this receipt: it was their first trip back to the Ritz after the non-apocalypse. Aziraphale felt an intruding warmth and fondness, realizing with more rushing curiosity that this was likely a box of mementos.  
  
He set the receipt on the desk and dug into the box deeper, inquisitive as to a few older things.  
  
A Polaroid. Some London tourist had grabbed them as they passed and asked Crowley to take a picture of the group in front of Big Ben. Crowley had obliged, but then turned the camera around and snapped an incredibly close-up, unflattering, and frankly embarrassing picture of himself and Aziraphale.  
  
Aziraphale let out a snort through his nose, setting that too on the desk.  
  
Next came a paper napkin from a cafe in France the two of them had visited, on which the lovely middle-aged woman serving them had written her phone number... and given it to Aziraphale. Crowley had laughed so hard and for so long, that the angel had had to usher him from the establishment and away from staring and judgmental eyes.  
  
Aziraphale shook his head fondly, setting the napkin on the desk as well.  
  
He unpacked several things next: a Certificate of Recognition, 1st place, London Horticultural Society’s 23rd annual Grower’s Competition, for stunning entry of one (1) Calathea Roseopicta. A handwritten letter from Aziraphale, circa 1940, baring a large wine stain in the middle, which Aziraphale had written around, circled, and drawn a little arrow to and written “oops.” An obscenely long phone bill, kept mainly for obvious posterity, as it was the first phone bill he’d ever received after the two of them both got phones. The first call had lasted almost 38 hours, as Crowley was so excited about being able to talk to Aziraphale from so far away that he refused to hang up. He’d even taken the phone to bed with him, and eventually fallen asleep talking to the angel. Aziraphale had been so endeared by it that he hadn’t the heart to hang up, and eventually resumed the conversation the next morning. Crowley had called him so often in that first month, in fact, that the bill itself was almost two feet long, and listed such phone calls as “December the 4th, of the year 1902. 08 seconds in length.” Aziraphale specifically remembered this one because he had picked up, heard a giddy “hello, trollop!” and then a click.  
  
He refolded the bill, and tossed it onto the desk.  
  
Next came a small stack of four _separate_ movie ticket stubs, all to the same film; The Great Dictator, with Charlie Chaplin. Crowley had initially convinced Aziraphale to see it with him on the excited proclamation that “we’ll hear him _talk_, angel!”  
  
Aziraphale hadn’t been that gung-ho about it at first, but had been so moved by the silent actor’s speech that he had insisted they see it again. And again. And _again_. And Crowley had quietly obliged, and apparently kept the stubs.  
  
It occurred to the angel then, as he fanned the tickets out on the desk, that all but one of these mementos involved Aziraphale himself. He would have thought, over the span of so many years, that Crowley would have done a number of things without him, many of which he wished to memorialize. But... he either didn’t memorialize them, or...  
  
He only really cherished the ones that involved Aziraphale.  
  
The angel swallowed a lump in his throat, trying and failing to wash it down with some wine.  
  
His sudden wonder made him dig to the bottom of the box, interested to find out what the oldest memory Crowley kept was. He held up the pile, his breath punched out of him once again at what he found.  
  
It was a novelty letterpress card from the 1683/84 Frost Fair, printed in person at a tented booth right there on the frozen Thames. Beneath a stylized artist rendition of the festivities, was printed;  
  
_Crowley, Lord / Anthony and Fell, Sir / Ezra_  
_London: Printed by G. Croom on the Ice, on the River of Thames, January 31. 1684. _  
  
“Oh, Crowley...” Aziraphale breathed, pulling the card delicately from the box and examining it.  
  
This event he remembered well, but not for particularly good reasons. Crowley had clearly been having a raving good time. He had been positively giddy. “Angel, they’re grilling meat... _on the river! _ Angel, they’re painting portraits... _on the river! Angel it’s a printing press... on the bloody river!!” _  
  
Aziraphale remembered the two of them spending quite literally all day at the fair, visiting booths, walking down the Thames, revisiting booths, walking some more. Crowley had expressed an almost child-like wonder at it all, so much that when the sun went down, he refused to leave. It had been almost 10 in the evening before Aziraphale (and, in fact, all of the vendors) had convinced him it was time to go.  
  
Crowley had collapsed halfway up the stone steps leading out of the Thames, and then again in the street, and that was where he couldn’t get back up.  
  
It turned out that Crowley’s natural serpentine weakness to the cold had been affecting him all day, but he’d been using his power consistently to warm himself. He’d run out, as it were, and his biology had finally caught up to him; he never shivered unless it was intentional. Instead his body reacted as a snake’s would—becoming sluggish and lethargic, making him incredibly weak. And he had no more power to counter it, as he’d been doing so all day so that the festivities could continue.  
  
Aziraphale had scolded him constantly as he supported him to the nearest inn, purchasing a room with a fireplace and requesting the largest pot of scalding hot tea they could muster. He’d plopped Crowley in front of the fire, wrapped him in a laughable amount of blankets, and shoved a huge cup of tea into his hand.  
  
_“Tell me, next time, for Go— somebody’s sake!” _ he had yelled. If he’d known, they could have left, warmed up, and returned later.  
  
_“D—didn’t want t—t’sssstop, angel. Didn’t w—want to go...” _ Crowley had lethargically responded, swaying dangerously and spilling some of his tea.  
  
Aziraphale had rushed forward just in time to take the cup and ease the demon into a sleeping heap of ice cold flesh and blankets. He’d sat next to him all night, keeping the fire raging and ensuring no part of him escaped from the blankets.  
  
“Oh, don’t feel guilty, angel. I’m the idiot who overdid it.”  
  
Aziraphale yelped, his whole body jerking and sending the box spilling to the floor. Papers galore flooded out in a haphazard spray of memories, followed by the rolling of two red poppy cuff links (which Aziraphale had given Crowley by way of an apology just after the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916).  
  
He looked up to find Crowley leaning casually against the office door frame, donning an incredibly sharp Saville three-piece suit, his hair still wet and unkempt. Aziraphale flushed with embarrassment.  
  
“Oh! Oh, Crowley, I’m... I’m so terribly sorry, I... I didn’t mean to intrude, I...”  
  
“Oh shove it, I told you to,” said Crowley dismissively. With a wave of his hand, the box was repositioned in Aziraphale’s lap, the spilled mess neatly restored into it. “Find anything interesting?”  
  
With that, Crowley meandered into the office, running his hand delicately through his hair and leaving it soft, dry, and perfectly styled. He peered down at the things Aziraphale had set on the desktop.  
  
“Oh, yeah! This one still gets me in giggles,” Crowley said fondly, picking up the phone numbered napkin.  
  
Aziraphale’s heart was still fluttering unnecessarily.  
  
“So... so you really don’t mind? That I’ve gone through all this?” he asked carefully, setting the box on the desk and looking up at the glowing yellow irises that were so beautifully reflecting the lamplight.  
  
Crowley’s brows furrowed. “No, why would I? You were there for most of them.”  
  
Aziraphale smiled, his heart pulsating for a different reason.  
  
“Yes, but... you keep all these things... I...” he trailed off, unsure of how to phrase his words. “Why _do you_ keep all these things, my dear?”  
  
Crowley grinned devilishly (this pun intended), swiping Aziraphale’s wine glass and downing the rest of it. His split tongue darted out to lick his lips as he unceremoniously plopped the glass back down.  
  
“You’ve got your books. I’ve got my memories. Shall we?”  
  
With that, he flounced from the room, but Aziraphale was very aware of a fleeing vulnerability that Crowley didn’t wish to face presently.  
  
He smiled, making a mental note to make the demon discuss this when he was drunk. He would be much more forthcoming with a bit of Merlot and raspberry cheesecake in him.  
  
He hurried from the office, leaving a pile of treasures he fully intended on revisiting on the desk’s now-cluttered surface.  
  
“Coming, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that this is the second time I've mentioned _The Great Dictator_ and Charlie Chaplin's speech being one of Aziraphale's favorites. If you feel like it, a stylized edit can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsgaFKwUA6g).  
Just a quick trigger warning though, in this particular edit there are some violent images.


	4. Obsidian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny stops by Crowley's flat, and realizes that he's still struggling with a few things from his encounter with Lucifer. She does her best to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings, chapter rating Teen+ for some mild sexual suggestion, and a brief moment of PTSD triggering.  
Also a reminder that Crowley is bisexual in this story.

Penny stood on the outside of Crowley’s rosewood front door, wondering (on a deep spiritual level) why she was here... again. She’d gone about her life and so had the demon, the spell binding them together having changed virtually nothing in their day-to-day lives. She continued about her studies, he went on... tempting humanity into depravity.  
  
But Penny found herself somewhat intrigued by him... scratch that, slightly obsessed would be a better word. On a surface level, she could explain it as just plain lustful fascination. After all, he was a very handsome man (or at least masqueraded as one) and incredibly adept in the bedroom... _maddeningly_ adept. This was how she had explained her return to him for several months, and he was perfectly happy (could demons even be happy?) to oblige her weakness. Several times a night.  
  
But there was something else... the day the devil came for him, she’d seen something very... human in him. He was scared, and weak, and empathetic toward an _angel. _He showed restraint, and a certain... deep-seeded passion for life here on earth. Not to mention she had felt genuine _love_ for the angel when she had touched Crowley. All things she would have thought a demon would be incapable of.  
  
Her hand hovered over the misted silver door handle. Crowley’s door had a bit of a mind of its own, just like the Bentley. If Crowley wanted the person to enter, or felt mildly indifferent about it, it would be unlocked. Otherwise... no dice.  
  
She grinned to herself as the handle slid down, allowing the heavy, blood-colored door to swing in slowly.  
  
“Crowley?” she asked quietly.  
  
She received an incredibly noncommittal grunt from her right, and she found him standing on the balcony, his back turned to her, the massive floor-to-ceiling glass doors left open. Penny’s heart did a backflip and lodged somewhere in her ribs as she found his magnificent ebony wings protruding from a slim-fit black dress shirt. They were only slightly extended, and even then took up most of the expansive balcony. His feet-long primary feathers shifted lazily with the ninth-floor breeze, their colors dancing in the shadows to create rich purple and blue tints that refracted the lights from inside the flat.  
  
She approached slowly, noticing his trance-like state as he stared out at the London skyline, a drink in hand. His other was lazily resting in his trouser pocket, and were it not for the rustling of feathers, she might have thought him a wax statue.  
  
Curiosity pulsed through her as she admired his wings—when she had touched Aziraphale’s feather, she had been flooded with otherworldly sensations, emotions... ethereal grace she hadn’t thought her tiny, insignificant body was capable of handling. And Crowley... never failed to completely surprise her. So... what would she feel in _his_ feathers? She didn’t think he would mind, after all... she had touched just about every inch of him.  
  
No more than a split second passed as her fingertips pressed against his soft feathers, not even enough time for her to feel anything more than a flash of heat, before Crowley leapt away from her, his wings snapping closed against his back with a violent _fwoomp. _ A hiss filled the air, and not the good kind she was used to. This one was a threat.  
  
_“Don’t you hiss at me. _ If you don’t want me to touch them, just te—“  
  
She paused as he turned slightly, backing to the balcony’s railing, slamming his back and folded wings into it. His eyes were wide as golf balls, and he’d forgotten to breathe, which he rarely did.  
  
She immediately went through a process of elimination in her head.  
  
_It must have been me touching his wings. But why is he freaking out about it? Is it taboo to touch their wings? Aziraphale did..._  
  
_Unless..._  
  
_Unless I triggered some kind of sense memory. The last person to touch them..._  
  
“Oh… _oh Crowley_... I’m sorry, I didn’t…” she whispered, remembering the blood on the floors. She hadn’t seen what Lucifer did to him, she’d kept her eyes closed to maintain her sanity. But she remembered the aftermath. He’d lost a worrisome amount of feathers, and the ones that had remained were matted with blood from the many puncture wounds and obviously broken bones. He’d slept for two weeks to heal from his injuries, and even then he was lethargic. She would know; she’d spent the better part of the day he woke up tangled up with him in the back seat of the Bentley.  
  
Penny sighed, mentally chastising herself for not thinking of this. She watched him for a moment, finding that he was still panicking a bit, his hand gripping his glass so hard, she worried he would shatter it.  
  
She considered laying a hand on his shoulder in comfort, but something in her gut warned her that she would lose several fingers if she did that—he didn’t exactly appear to be in his right mind (whatever the ‘right mind’ was for a demon).  
  
“Crowley?” she whispered, leaning into his field of view. He seemed to be staring straight through her, straight through the earth. And he still wasn’t breathing.  
  
“Crowley, it’s okay. You’re on earth. You’re _safe_,” she said evenly.  
  
He flinched slightly at the word, finally blinking once and inhaling sharply.  
  
“Safe...” he echoed, beginning to blink and breathe again.  
  
“Yeah,” she said, taking a cautious step forward and reaching for his free hand. She slipped her fingers into it, her clairvoyance flooding her with mind-numbing terror. She yelped slightly, her hand closing on his reflexively. She felt her blood pound in her ears, her knees going weak and threatening to give out.  
  
“Still?” she asked, her voice breaking in the middle. It had been months, and he was still suffering the memory of it like it had been days ago.  
  
He nodded almost imperceptibly, blinking several flustered times before he straightened, looking around somewhat bashfully, obviously realizing he’d had an episode. When he found her hand in his, he yanked it back as if it had been in a vice, turning away to face the city again and taking a shaky drink of his scotch.  
  
Penny was torn between letting it go (Crowley had a tendency to get flustered and angry when she talked to him about anything personal), and trying to fix it. After all, that’s what led her into this spell in the first place. She’d wanted to help him, to fix it.  
  
“Crowley... can I...” she trailed off, taking a step toward him. As she did, she found his yellow eyes flicking to the side and watching her like a predator does.  
  
She had a theory that, if she could replace a memory of pain with something more pleasant... maybe she could help him.  
  
Gingerly, as he appeared skittish about it, she took two long steps toward him, standing behind him and gently laying both hands on his ribs. He tensed, and part of her wondered if he was or even could be ticklish.  
  
“You have so much pain.... I just want... to help you,” she whispered, running her hands up his back until they collided gently with his wing joints. As her fingers glided up the delicate bones and through soft tertiary feathers, her clairvoyance began to flare back up.  
  
When she had touched one of Aziraphale’s feathers, she was flooded with an amalgamation of everything Heaven was, everything the angel was; virtue, and innocence, and love.  
  
She was expecting, then, to get a taste of Hell; of agony, and terror, and fire. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was more... overwhelmingly intense passion. Not just lust, though there was some of that, boiling up in Penny’s blood and making her want to rip Crowley’s clothes off with her teeth. It was more than that, though—it was passion for _life_, and for all of its pleasures. It was hunger; an insatiable need to consume. To consume food, art, people, knowledge, materials. It made her want to run her hands against the softest silks, to drink the world’s finest wine, to savor the richest foods. It made her... smile.  
  
“Wow...” she whispered, dragging herself out of it and trying, with great difficulty, to ignore the transference.  
  
She trailed her fingertips softly up the leading edge of both wings, almost having to rise to her toes to reach. Then, with careful pressure, she spread her fingers out, dragging them down and through his feathers, feeling the delicate, thin skin beneath.  
  
Crowley made some kind of animalistic noise, something between a moan and a purr, his knees buckling. He leaned forward, bracing his palms on the railing and letting his head drop.  
  
Penny immediately yanked her hands back.  
  
“Did I hurt you??” she asked quickly.  
  
He nodded ‘no’ somewhat frantically, clearing his throat before speaking.  
  
“N-no. The extreme opposite,” he said, his voice shaking.  
  
“Oh,” Penny replied with a grin, stepping forward and returning her hands to his wings, beginning to run them up and down their entire length, tracing circular shapes and following the delicate bones with pointed, light touches of her fingernails.  
  
He made the same noise again, his shoulders reflexively rolling back and pushing his wings into her touch.  
  
She smiled wider, leaning against his back, his wings barely stopping her, and placing her chin on his shoulder to breathe intentionally against his neck. She continued running her fingers through his feathers as she did, feeling him shivering a bit.  
  
“You like that, do you?” she whispered, knowing her breath on his neck would turn him on.  
  
He raised his head, a very mischievous yet... satiated look on his handsome features.  
  
“Don’t get cocky,” he said, his voice lower than it usually was, making it come out very carnal.  
  
She took that as a challenge, splaying her hands out into his wings and curling her fingertips slightly to massage them.  
  
He closed his eyes, obviously failing to stop himself from biting his lower lip.  
  
“And why shouldn’t I?” she hummed against his neck, dragging her hands back to the joints near his spine and scratching her fingernails against them torturously lightly. “I may be the first person alive to make a demon _purr_.”  
  
He jerked a bit, his spine arching toward her.  
  
“That’s not what it was,” he replied, but his tone was uncertain.  
  
“You sure?” she asked, moving back into his primary feathers, where she’d gotten the best response. “Cuz I can keep trying.”  
  
He groaned as she continued massaging them, his breathing accelerating slightly. He actually leaned his head back against Penny’s shoulder, and she reveled in the intimacy of it.  
  
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he said, the smile apparent in his voice.  
  
She let the silence fill the air as he savored her touch, an occasional involuntary jerk letting her know what he liked.  
  
She breathed in deeply against his neck, taking in his scent of musk and smoke.  
  
“You want me to stop? We can go to the bedroom,” she whispered, turning her head to let her lips touch his skin as she spoke.  
  
“I will _quite_ literally kill you if you stop,” he groaned, rolling his shoulders again.  
  
Penny giggled. “Yeah, but then you’d have to get to know my sister... actually you’d probably like her. A bit twisted, that one. Mostly in the bedroom, but she _did_ put her ex-husband in the hospital for a week.”  
  
“Not really selling me on keeping you around,” he said sarcastically. “Really, though—don’t sell yourself short, Penny. Took me almost three hours to get the feeling back in my hands the last time you stopped by.”  
  
“Tie you too tight, did I?” she asked with an evil grin, gripping a handful of feathers to get her point across. He jumped, but didn’t pull away.  
  
“If I say yes, are you gunna go easy on me next time? Because in that case, _no_ .”  
  
She laughed again, turning her head and leaning against him, nuzzling onto his soft feathers as she continued easily scratching her fingernails against the underside of his wings.  
  
“In all seriousness, though... how _do you_ plan on explaining the presence of a demon to your family?”  
  
She sighed, having avoided that thought for the most part.  
  
“Well... I’m hoping that I’ll be lucky enough to speak to my children candidly when they’re old enough... you know... when I decide to have a few. But for now, it really doesn’t seem necessary that any of them know. Don’t want them to... er, freak out.”  
  
He didn’t respond, and she wished she was standing in front of him, so that she could read his expression.  
  
“I did take one precaution, though... just in case,” she said, pulling away. He followed her involuntarily, taking a step back toward her.  
  
_“Penny...” _ he practically begged, the ‘don’t stop’ heavily implied, with both an air of ‘please,’ and also ‘or else.’  
  
“I know, hold on,” she responded, pulling her sterling and obsidian ring from her thumb, reaching around him and dangling it in front of him. He took it, and she quickly returned her massaging hands to his wings, which he verbally appreciated with a tiny groan.  
  
“Look on the underside,” she said simply.  
  
He read out loud as he found the microscopic engraving on the inner side of the ring.  
  
“His name is Crowley, ye only need fear him if ye dare fuck with him.”  
  
He laughed incredibly hard, a genuine sound Penny realized she’d never heard untainted by sarcasm or condescension.  
  
He handed it back beneath his right wing.  
  
“I like it,” he said with an obvious smile.


	5. The Demon's Inquiry, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something troubling has occurred to Crowley, and he goes to Penny for answers. She doesn't have them. Not the _right_ answers, anyway.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: E  
Explicit sexual content, between a bi male (presenting) and a female. Don't come at me with Het accusations, I don't wanna hear it. If it's not your jam, skip this chapter. It'll be pretty obvious what happened.

Penny’s heart nearly leapt from her throat and cooked like a pancake on her copy of _The Necronomicon_ as her doorbell went off suddenly... and kept going off. As if someone was playing _Flight of the Concords_ on it.  
  
Penny growled in frustration, turning the book over on her nook table to save the page, and launching from her seat.  
  
“Jesus, I’m _coming! _” she yelled, stomping for the door.  
  
“Let me in, and I’ll make you say that again.”  
  
She paused, her heart returning to her like a comical American western film punch-to-the-face. Complete with Wilhelm scream.  
  
“Crowley?!” she asked, pouncing forward once more as he continued to pound he doorbell as if he were tenderizing meat.  
  
She yanked the door open as she yelled over the constant _ding-ding-ding-ding. _  
  
“What the hell are you doing at m—”  
  
All words left her as she found a very sloppy-looking, sopping wet, clearly drunk Crowley; his hair mussed and tousled, his tie yanked loose, and a bottle of Macallan dangling from his right hand. And behind him, taking up her entire stoop... were his dark ebony wings.  
  
“Got a pick to bone w’you,” he said, his left hand finally dropping from the doorbell and slapping to his side. He raised the bottle, taking a swig and wincing at the taste.  
  
_“Crowley!” _ Penny chastised, leaning out of the door to peer left and right, making sure no one was gawking at the winged man standing at her door. “Your wings! Aren’t you... worried about being seen?!”  
  
He shrugged, the motion looking very much like the wave being done in a stadium full of horribly inebriated football fans.  
  
“They’ll jus’assume they’re hallunicati—_hallucitat_— seeing things,” he said with a lopsided grin.  
  
“You are... _really_ drunk... get in here!” she yelped, grasping a handful of his shirt front and yanking him inside. He tried to fold his wings as she did, but one of them seemed to have a mind of its own, swiping three picture frames from the wall and knocking over her decorative mini table. He turned as she closed the door, stumbling dangerously and trying to correct by throwing an arm out for balance, spraying whiskey onto the floor.  
  
“Did you... _fly here?! _” she asked with disbelief as she turned to look at him.  
  
He smiled even wider, his right wing curling magnificently in front of him as he plucked a twig from his feathers, saying flippantly, “define ‘flying’.” He followed it with an airy ‘ow’ as he pulled out another twig that seemed to have been deeply embedded.  
  
“Oooo...kay,” Penny replied, gently shoving his wing out of the way and approaching him. She reached up, pulling his sunglasses from his eyes, folding them and placing them in his jacket pocket.  
  
She expected hopelessly drunk, which she did find a hearty helping of, but within his golden eyes, she found something she’d seen many times and recognized instantly; fear.  
  
“Crowley, I need you to sober up. I know you can,” she said, careful to make it a request. She’d been working on her phrasing for a while, after a few accidental orders that had frustrated and/or straight up enraged him.  
  
He nodded ‘no’, averting his eyes and turning away from her. He took another obviously dizzying gulp from the bottle, staring down at the rug as he swayed a bit.  
  
“D’un want to,” he said, his voice dropping a few notes and breaking.  
  
“You said you wanted to talk to me about something, you can’t do that if you can’t _talk_,” she tried.  
  
“Don’t want... to think about it,” he continued with a shaky sigh.  
  
“About _what_, Crowley?!” she asked, flustered but trying to keep her cool. “_You_ came to _me_. Don’t you normally talk to Aziraphale about this stuff?”  
  
He twitched at the mention of the angel, taking another gulp and nodding ‘no’, staggering suddenly and flaring out his wings to steady himself. Their impressive span hit both foyer walls, knocking down a few more photos.  
  
“Th’angel worries too much, don want him t’worry about me... always worrying ‘bout me,” he said, his eyelids blinking slowly.  
  
“And _why would he worry? _” Penny prodded again, reaching for the bottle lithely.  
  
Even in his state, he caught the movement, yanking it out of reach in a very snakelike manner, albeit a very drunk snake, and taking a step away from her. He finally managed to fold his wings, one of them closing faster than the other.  
  
“Well for one, he’s pig-headed and stubborn, and for ‘nother... he tries to fix things, unfixable things. ‘S just...”  
  
He seemed to have lost his train of thought, so Penny used the opportunity to interrupt.  
  
“No, I meant ‘what is it you’re worried about’, Crowley?” she asked, taking a step forward.  
  
He stared at her as best he could as she closed the last of the distance between them, leaning against his chest and reaching around him in a type of embrace. She angled her arms up, beginning to gently run her fingers through the underside of his wings _just_ the way he liked.  
  
He enjoyed it for seconds, barely beginning to relax, before leaping away from her and backing into the hallway, hissing lightly as he went. He turned his side to her as he looked defensively down at the floor, regrettably taking another drink. He pointed an accusatory finger at her, wagging it unsteadily while continuing to look down at the floor.  
  
“Don’t do that,” he growled. “Manipulate me...”  
  
“I wasn’t, I... I was just trying to help you rel—“  
  
“No, you know I like that, and you’re using it to make me... to make...”  
  
He lost steam, probably because it involved admitting something he couldn’t admit.  
  
“Crowley...” Penny began, unsure if she should utilize this line of reasoning, but bravely plowing forward anyway. “If I wanted to _make you_ do something, I could. You know that. I’m trying to help you relax. You’re obviously panicking about something, and I’m trying to _help you. _”  
  
“’m not... _panicking_,” he snapped defensively, but he deflated a bit. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh before dejectedly holding out the bottle to her. She took it with an appreciative nod, also using the opportunity to step closer. She took the bottle with one hand, quickly wrapping her other around his wrist, feeling his inebriated pulse at her fingertips. Thankfully, he did not pull away.  
  
She closed her eyes, allowing her clairvoyance to creep out of the recesses, beckoning Crowley’s essence to mix with her own.  
  
She’d been right; he was definitely panicking. His emotions swirled through her aura: uncertainty, regret, guilt, and of course fear. Her heart raced as her physiology mimicked his, the tiny hairs on her arms standing up around the sudden goosebumps.  
  
“Liar,” she whispered with a grin, removing her hand from his wrist, which he let drop limply to his side.  
  
“_Demon_,” he retorted with a returned but halfhearted smile. He inhaled and held it, a shudder running from shoulders to toes as he obviously sobered up. The shudder coursed into his wings, making them shake impressively like a bird in a bath.  
  
He let his breath out as he opened his eyes, his brows turning harshly into an expression of anguish. He cringed against the sobriety, groaning and rubbing his temples with one hand.  
  
_“What’s wrong, Crowley?” _ Penny asked at nearly a whisper.  
  
He finally turned his head to look at her, his slit eyes obviously weighing the benefit of telling her. His drunkenness had brought him here, his sobriety was clearly wondering _fucking why? _  
  
“Thought of something,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “What happens if I’m discorporated?”  
  
Penny sought through her memory for a definition; _‘our version of death’_, Aziraphale had called it.  
  
“You mean... if your body is destroyed?” Penny asked, to which he twitched again before nodding his affirmation.  
  
“Does your spell protect me against that? I mean... do I return to you, if it happens, or do I...”  
  
His breath caught and it was clear in his tensed and rigid body language that the mere thought of it was making him panic again.  
  
“And... if my soul does return to you... you can’t provide me with a new body, so what am I then? A formless, floating _nothing_ that can’t speak, can’t act, can’t...”  
  
He was breathing shallowly now, his hands clenching and unclenching in a show of his stress.  
  
“I can possess people, but not forever. And it’s not like getting my own body; they’re always there, always buried, always fighting me. It gets exhausting, that’s no way to...”  
He shook his head of the thought. “And if I don’t return to you... if we went through all this trouble, this spell... you surrendered your _soul_... wouldn’t that just be _terribly_ ironic, we found this loophole, buggered _The Devil_, and then I’m suddenly discorporated and he gets me back, not even a lifetime, maybe not even days... and he’d be _ssssso bloody sssssatisfied_ to have me back. He’d... he’d... _oh Christ, he’d have so much fun making me suffer...” _  
  
Crowley leaned hard against the wall behind him, his wings flattening as he raised a shaking hand to cover his mouth with.  
  
Penny rushed forward, unsure what he would allow her to do in this state, but she figured she’d just go for it until he stopped her.  
  
She set the bottle on the ground quickly, straightening and grasping both his wrists quite hard, holding them tight as she looked harshly into his nervous yellow eyes.  
  
“I’ll do some research, okay?” she asked reassuringly, but he obviously didn’t like that answer. She trudged on, despite the dramatic roll of his serpentine eyes. “There have to be other spells available to me. There’s no way a witch can summon a demon and then... _not_ be able to accommodate them. I _know_ that demons have inhabited deceased bodies before, maybe I can help you reanimate one, or...”  
  
“Lovely, dead blokes. Just the kind of aesthetic I’m going for...”  
  
Penny ignored his sarcasm. “Or I can see if... maybe... maybe you could possess me...”  
  
Crowley stiffened in her grasp, beginning to pull away.  
  
“Penny, _you don’t want me to do that,” _ he said worriedly, trying to pull his wrists out of her grasp. She didn’t let go.  
  
“I know, I know it’ll be difficult. But it wouldn’t be permanent, I cou—“  
  
“Penny!” Crowley snapped. She stopped, looking up at him. “Don’t ever ask me to possess you, even if it will save my... _life_, if that’s what we’re calling it. No one comes out the other side of a possession the same. You get shoved into a cage in your own mind, and watch someone drive your body around like a car. It’s maddening. It’s been six thousand years, and I’ve never seen a _single person_ recover their sanity after a demonic possession. Angelic, sure, but... not me. And I’m sure you think I’m being noble, protecting you. I’m not. If I destroy you, I... that’s it. No more Penny, the one person actively trying to help me...”  
  
“Aziraphale...?” Penny asked, to which Crowley hurriedly nodded ‘no.’  
  
“He’ll try, but... this isn’t his spell. It’s _yours. _ All he did was agree. If I destroy you, the spell passes to your next of kin, and I’m stuck with someone who doesn’t know me, fears me, and doesn’t understand... doesn’t know how to... doesn’t...”  
  
He was almost hyperventilating, his hands trembling violently.  
  
“Shhhhh,” Penny tried, releasing his wrists and leaning against him. She shoved her hands up his back, between his jacket and pressure-flattened wings. She went for the joints, where wing met spine; the sweet spot just outside them. She pressed her fingers into them hard, and he groaned, leaning his head back against the wall.  
  
“Relax,” she said, unsure if it was a command or not. He did regardless, his muscles releasing tension as she kept massaging his wings. “All you have to do is be careful for a little while. Try to avoid dangerous situations, and _for the love of G— someone_, stop driving so fast. And flying while drunk.”  
  
He laughed, and she felt it against her chest as she continued to lean into him.  
  
“I’ll do some reading. I’m very good at that. After all, I did figure out the Witch’s Trinity, after thousands of witches failed. There _has to_ be something, something allowing me to hold onto your soul, even if you’re discorporated. And I promise, I won’t let that something be me. Since you’re so, you know... concerned about me.”  
  
“Watch it, I have a reputation to uphold,” he said sarcastically, but his breath hitched as she hit something pleasurable in his wings, making him jerk. They began to subconsciously extend against the wall, allowing her more surface to work with.  
  
She grinned at his sudden, if not completely intentional, openness. She spread her fingers into his wings, using a spider-crawl motion to work through the feathers. He closed his eyes as she did, his knees almost giving out and letting him drop down a bit before he got control of himself. She grinned wickedly, loving that she could so easily have him melting like this under her touch.  
  
“You’re doing it again,” Crowley growled, but this time he didn’t seem threatened or manipulated by it. This time he kept his head leaned back against the wall, eyes delicately closed.  
  
“Mmhmm,” Penny agreed, angling a leg between his to allow herself closer, beginning to combine sensations by grinding her hips against his as she curled her fingers against his wings, her fingernails dragging against the delicate skin beneath the feathers. An impressive shiver coursed him, and Penny reveled in satisfaction as she watched goosebumps rise on his skin. She dragged her fingers against the bones, following them back to his spine.  
  
A guttural sound rose from his throat, something reminiscent of the many demonic growls in many demon-centric Hollywood horror movies. Before she could comment, though, Penny felt herself lifted and thrown back from every angle. As if a thousand different hands from a thousand different angles were shoving her.  
  
Her back collided with the opposite wall hard, her arms splayed out and held there by unseen forces... forces she knew well. She smiled mischievously, finding Crowley’s eyes glowing red as he stalked forward, swaying hypnotically, not unlike a cobra.  
  
He slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her, caging her in and leaning threateningly close to her face. She would have been scared... if she wasn’t so hopelessly turned on.  
  
His forked tongue snapped out with lightning speed, a long hiss accompanying it. His still-glowing eyes went down her body and back up with the slow, deliberate pour of golden honey.  
  
“Keep doing that, yeah?” he asked, but he made it clear it wasn’t really a request by bending, grabbing her right thigh beneath her dress, and yanking it up and around his waist. She felt whatever force was holding her arms release, which was her cue to do as he asked.  
  
She grinned wickedly, wrapping her leg around him tighter, grinding her hips against him harder. He dropped his hands, and she could feel and hear him unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. He stared unyielding into her eyes, his yellow ones unbearably intimidating and dangerous.  
  
Penny giggled as she was suddenly very aware that her underwear had simply... ceased to exist.  
  
Crowley grabbed her other leg, hoisting her up against the wall. She rested her elbows on his shoulders, returning her fingers to the depth of his feathers, and he paused, burying his face in the crook of her neck and letting out a long, low moan. She grinned, pressing her fingers in a line going back toward his spine.  
  
He whimpered, yanking her thighs around him tighter and pushing _slowly_ inside her.  
  
She couldn’t help the spasm that went through her as his heat filled her up, and her hands clenched hard on a handful of feathers as she moaned.  
  
The pained whine he let out was both pitiful and somehow sexy, but Penny yanked her hands back, holding his shoulder with one and wrapping the other around his neck.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.  
  
He turned his head against her neck, his lips against her skin as he growled “don’t care... _do it again.” _  
  
She scoffed, reaching back and grabbing a handful of feathers again. He whined again, but this time accompanied it with a hard thrust of his hips. She cried out, following it with a gasp of his name as he moved perfectly, rhythmically, his hips in torturous harmony like... like a slithering snake.  
  
She felt that sinful, practiced forked tongue on her neck, tracing slowly from jugular to ear lobe, which he bit playfully.  
  
“Two can play that game,” she whispered, moving her fingers back to that sweet spot in his wings, dragging her fingernails through the feathers, harder than she usually did.  
  
He yelped, his rhythm becoming unsteady as his knees buckled, and he was forced to release her right leg to plant a hand on the wall to steady himself.  
  
“Oh come now,” Penny whispered sensuously, turning her head and nibbling at his neck as she angled her hips just _ so._ “Surely it can’t be _that_ easy to break you.”  
  
He growled in retaliation, yanking her leg back up and thrusting hard into her. She groaned, returning her hands to that spot in his wings and testing her theory.  
  
His hips bucked hard, but he kept his composure this time, mostly, other than the sounds... _God almighty_, the unhinged sounds he was making.  
  
She’d been so wrapped up in her newfound toy that her own pleasure snuck up on her. She yelped as he finally found that angle, that perfect angle, building up inside her with every sinuous move of his perfect hips.  
  
“Crowley! Right there...” she begged, her hands swimming in a sea of soft yet trembling feathers.  
  
“Could say the same to..._ you!” _ he cried, his spine hollowing toward her as she continued, with difficulty, to touch and massage his wings just the way he liked, the way he _needed. _  
  
Her whole body began to seize up as he continued, just like that, over and over. She slammed her head back against the wall, her hands finally migrating from the delicate part of his wings to the highest bone, gripping them unimaginably hard.  
  
He practically screamed as she did, and she felt his teeth bite down on her shoulder _hard_, which only made the waves and waves of heat and pleasure more intense. She rode them with him, angling her hips into him as he moved, pushing him as deep as possible and clenching her legs around him.  
  
He seized up as she did, whimpering against her neck as his hips bucked hard twice... three times more. Despite having her eyes closed, Penny saw dancing red spots as her waves of ecstasy finally crashed, leaving nothing but satisfaction.  
  
Crowley pulled out and released her legs, and they shook as they supported her weight. He continued leaning against her as the aftershocks wracked his body, little twitches running through his abdomen and wings. He breathed heavily against her neck, and she released his wings, her hands sticking to the feathers with sweat.  
  
She pulled her hands back, first laying them on his chest before running them up to his neck, where she pushed him back, grabbing his chin and making him look at her.  
  
His golden eyes were conflicted, but at least he wasn’t so manic anymore.  
  
“Feel better?” she asked, watching as he caught his breath. He didn’t nod, pulling his chin from her grasp with a tiny growl.  
  
“No,” he rasped, taking a step back and pulling his trousers closed and zipping them. His wings drew in close to his body , before disappearing altogether like a stone sinking below the surface. “Still an angry, bloody _mess_, but one that’s been recently laid.”  
  
Penny grinned, flattening her dress down against her thighs. She took his wrist in her hand (as hand-holding, much like kissing, was implicitly off-limits), and led him into her sitting room, depositing him onto her plush couch with a shove.  
  
“Now,” she began, hurrying back into the hallway to grab the bottle of Macallan. She sat opposite him in her favorite recliner, and handed it back to him. She held fast though when he went to take it, forcing him to look questioningly at her.  
  
“Slowly, please,” she requested, hoping to avoid a repeat of his earlier performance.  
  
His face twisted unhappily, but he nodded begrudgingly.  
  
She nodded back. “Let’s talk about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt weird about posting this chapter, because Penny is being a bit manipulative with her use of sex. Please don't hate her. She's just doing what she thinks, what she's been conditioned to think by a modern human society, is her only option as a way to help him. Both are consenting, though, I promise.


	6. The Demon's Inquiry, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny and Crowley continue their conversation after a few interruptions. Penny stumbles upon something about Crowley that he's hiding from Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for minor sexual suggestion
> 
> (A note: he/him pronouns are used for God in this story, because I wrote it before the show came out. I might start using she from now on, IDK)

“Oh my _God_, Crowley,” Penny groaned as she allowed herself to sink back into the down pillow and Egyptian cotton sheets, which were both thoroughly doused in sweat and a bit of blood. Whose blood, remained to be seen. ‘Talk about this,’ as it turned out, ended up just being Penny coming up blank, Crowley descending into another panic, and Penny doing what she could to stop him from spiraling. It was superficial and hollow, the sex, but at least it distracted him from how obviously terrified he was on the topic of discorporation. It felt awfully manipulative, distracting him with sex, but what felt worse was not having the answers he was seeking.  
  
“Nuh uh, don’t you dare give Him credit for that,” he whispered huskily, a hand flailing out toward the nightstand and fondling around until it found his silver cigarette case. “All me,” he continued, popping open the case and pulling one out to gently rest in his lips. He held it out to her in offering, but she grinned, rolling her head and eyes up to motion to her wiggling fingers.  
  
“Ah, right. Suppose you’ll be needing those back,” he said flippantly, rolling toward her and yanking the end of his knotted neck tie, releasing her hands from the iron headboard.  
  
She winced as the blood began to flow back to her fingertips with a crawling tingle. She rubbed them quickly, reaching out and taking a cigarette from the case before he could pull it back.  
  
He snapped it closed, tossing it with absolutely no conviction back onto the nightstand, where it collided with the digital clock, which read 3:03am.  
  
“Huh,” he said with amusement, grabbing his lighter and lighting both their cigarettes. “Gotta be some kind of irony at making you climax as the witching hour begins.”  
  
Penny giggled, taking a long, satisfied drag of her cigarette as she let her eyes unashamedly follow the lines of Crowley’s exposed body as he continued to pant.  
  
“Sign of things to come? Pun... not entirely intended,” she said, ashing her cigarette just over his hip and delighting in the yelp he let out as he swatted it away from his skin.  
  
“Naughty,” he chastised with no actual berating in his tone whatsoever.  
  
“Pot, kettle,” she replied, first pointing at him, then to herself.  
  
He gave her a Cheshire grin, which only made her want to pounce on him again. Not that the three... no, four times hadn’t been enough. First the foyer, then the couch. Then against the door to her bedroom, the act of actually _opening it_ having apparently taken too long. Then finally the bed.  
  
She clasped her cigarette in her lips, swirling her hand through the air in the typical ‘flip over’ motion.  
  
He obliged, and she tossed the single sheet over his lower half as she straddled him, sitting on his lower back as she commanded ‘wings.’  
  
They burst into existence, and he stretched them almost the entire width of her bedroom before allowing them to relax, their length spanning well beyond her on either side.  
  
She made sure to keep her cigarette securely pinched in her lips as she gently dug her fingers back into the depths of his feathers, rubbing and scratching. He groaned, his eyes rolling a bit before he closed them and turned his head to rest against his crossed arms, his cigarette dangling dangerously above the flesh of his elbow.  
  
“This doesn’t get old?” she asked, following the primary feathers into the farthest length of his wings.  
  
He shuddered, his wings following suit and making a beautiful rustling sound.  
  
“Does an orgasm get old?” he asked in return, his wings pushing up into her touch, begging for more.  
  
“It’s that good, huh?” she asked, giving him what he wanted.  
  
He pulled his cigarette from his lips, and Penny couldn’t help but notice that his hand was trembling a bit.  
  
“Well how many people do you think touch them?” he asked, waving his cigarette in questioning as he spoke.  
  
“Erm... I’m gunna venture a guess of... two? Me, and Aziraphale...”  
  
Crowley tensed then, turning his head and propping his chin on the pillow at such an angle so as to avoid her seeing his expression.  
  
“He helped them to heal when I was... injured. But we don’t make a habit of... well, of... our wings are a kind of...”  
  
Penny knew what he was getting at. Wings were intimate. Or at least that’s how it appeared, with Crowley anyway. And for an angel and a demon... that would probably be incredibly taboo, if not a bit sinful.  
  
“I understand,” she interrupted, saving him from having to articulate it. He relaxed, the movement a clear ‘thank you.’  
  
She thought for a moment at how tense he’d become when she asked, deciding she was curious about something, but knowing he probably wouldn’t answer. So she buttered him up, going for his sweet spot; the area just beyond the joint, on the underside, against the deep, strong muscles there.  
  
“Have you ever... tried to tempt the angel?” she asked, continuing his favorite movement in his favorite spot. Still, though, he tensed up like a stone gargoyle.  
  
He tried to blow it off. “You mean... to sin? Of course I have, do it every time we go to the Ritz. Gluttony’s an easy one for hi—“  
  
“No, Crowley,” she interrupted, her hands pausing before very deliberately getting her point across by dragging them off his wings, down his spine, and digging sensuously into the muscles of his lower back. “You know which one.”  
  
He was silent for a very long time, taking measured drags of his cigarette. She continued running her hands all over him, but it almost appeared he wasn’t going to answer. She could use her clairvoyance on him—glean through the skin-to-skin contact what, exactly, he was feeling in response to this question. But… she knew it was intrusive, and personal, and possibly even a sore subject, so… she owed him the option of declining to answer.  
  
“No,” he finally said, the finality of it far too simple to encompass the massive silence that came before.  
  
“But... you’ve thought about it...” Penny tried, dragging her knuckles up his back and massaging the joints to his wings. He let out a small groan of pleasure, his free hand gripping the pillow. She took that compliment, and continued what she was doing.  
  
“Of course I have. It’s been six thousand years, and I’m... I’m a _demon._ That’s the point of me, to breed sin...” he tried, but there was so much hidden in those words.  
  
Penny recalled the time she had touched him that day in Aziraphale’s shop. When she had found out what they were, and thought that Crowley had hurt him. But she had let her clairvoyance do the judging, and had found genuine love for the angel.  
  
“Is that the only reason you would try, though? Because it’s _your job?”_ she asked, blatantly digging now. “There’s not… say, any _other reason? _For wanting to be close to him?”  
  
He growled defensively, but clearly couldn’t bring himself to pull away from her. Instead, he took a curt drag of his cigarette.  
  
“Love and lust cannot coexist,” he mumbled, blowing the smoke out toward the headboard and watching it with feigned interest as it crashed against the wood and returned, like a wave against the shore.  
  
“Well that’s completely untrue,” she replied hastily, her heart aching for the divide he obviously felt between companionship and physical intimacy. “I mean, it doesn’t _have to_, to be real love, but… it’s possible,” she continued, electing to ignore the fact that he had just blatantly admitted to loving Aziraphale. "_And_, you're equating lust with sex. Which aren't necessarily the same thing. A husband and wife may partake of _sex_ without it being _lust_, right? Right?" she asked a second time when he didn't initially answer.  
  
“Agree to disagree,” he barked, taking another stressed drag.  
  
“But... you haven’t even tried,” she said, returning her hands into the depths of his feathers, which he appreciated with an involuntary jerk. “Don’t you think, given the circumstances, that… he should get a choice too? At least know that you… would want him, in that way?”  
  
He beat his wings violently once, which forced her to pull her hands back. He turned his head on the pillow to look at her, his gaze slightly threatening.  
  
“He’s _an angel,_ Penelope.”  
  
_Uh oh, full-named. He’s upset with me. _  
  
“Angels are sexless. They can’t… _shouldn’t_… I dunno. _Won’t_. But I do know this; I Fell for less. And if there’s anything in this world that I would literally die to avoid, it’s… it’s _that.”_  
  
Clearly distressed, he rearranged, the lines of muscle in his back and shoulders tensed and taut. Penny wanted to question him further, _wanted_ to get to the root of why he wouldn’t even _talk_ to Aziraphale about this. But it was clear that he was cutting off this conversation, in no uncertain terms.  
  
“Fair enough,” she conceded, and he relaxed, lowering his wings back in front of her.  
  
She smiled mischievously as she returned to massaging them.  
  
“But... you _have_ slept with men, then?” she asked, and he giggled wickedly.  
  
“Lust has no gender,” he replied, taking a final drag on his cigarette before twisting it into the tray on the nightstand. Penny used the opportunity to ash hers, returning it to her lips before returning to his wings.  
  
“Figured as much,” she replied, scratching her nails through his feathers and earning herself a shudder. “So who’s better? Men or women?”  
  
“Right now, I will say whatever you want me to say to get you to _keep doing that_,” he said, one of his legs kicking in a slight spasm as she obviously hit just the right spot.  
  
She smiled genuinely, repeating the motion. “I’m not trying to get you to stroke my ego. You’ve already done that four times this evening. I’m asking, honestly. Who do you enjoy more, men or women?”  
  
He sighed, thinking on it and pushing his wings up and into her touch.  
  
“Honestly?” he said, dropping his head to the pillow and closing his eyes. “Depends on my mood. Sometimes I don’t even know. I didn’t really seek out sex _for myself_ until… fairly recently, actually. Mostly it was orders… _tempt him, seduce her. _ But when I get to choose… if I had to put a number on it…I’d say... 60/40, men.  
  
Penny grinned, having suspected that too. “Well then… I’m happy to be a part of the triumphant minority.”  
  
He giggled flatly, and she sighed, watching as his eyes remained closed, his breaths deep and relaxed. She leaned forward, putting her cigarette out before reaching for the far edge of his right wing, pulling it closed against his back so she could roll off of him and collapse to the bed next to him. She grabbed the sheets, pulling them up over her naked body.  
  
“You’re exhausting,” she said, in awe as his wings disappeared.  
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, his words slow as he obviously began to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I agree, Crowley has a fairly unhealthy view of sex. That's going to be part of his journey throughout the whole story.
> 
> (And please don't think I'm equating asexuality with unhealthy, that's absolutely not what I mean. I just mean that Crowley thinks that love and sex cannot, _ever_ exist together, and that _can be_ unhealthy.


	7. Exorcismus, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a plan to answer his most burning question, but it guarantees to be one Aziraphale will loath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen.

Penny shivered, pulling her coat and scarf up higher about her neck, thinking on the last week. Crowley had admitted to loving Aziraphale, in a very real, _human_ way. Then he had maybe, kind of, sort of suggested that he might desire the angel in a very human way. But then he’d backtracked, saying that he didn’t believe love and sex could coexist, worrying that any sexual encounter for Aziraphale could damn him to Fall. So which was it? He loved Aziraphale, and wanted to be close to him in every way, or he loved Aziraphale, but didn’t believe sex was in the cards for them? Or, and this seemed most likely, Crowley knew, deep down, that love and sex certainly could exist together, but he was terrified that Aziraphale didn’t love him back. Not in the way he would want, anyway. Which would make it lust, on the angel’s part. Which was a Fell-able crime. In Crowley’s eyes, anyway.  
  
She groaned, feeling monumentally out of place and underdressed as she strode gingerly through the doors of the Ritz, half-expecting to be tackled and dragged from the classy establishment on grounds of “we don’t serve your kind here.” She wasn’t sure what ‘her kind’ was, be it a witch, a woman, or a person of questionable morality, but any of those would have traditionally seemed grounds for ejection. As it was, her slim black dress and quickly yet somehow-elegantly combed hair camouflaged those things about her, and thus no one stopped her. A maître d' bowed pristinely to her, offering to take her coat and inquiring as to her party.  
  
She stumbled upon that, the many options swirling through her head; would Aziraphale have made the reservation? Did they even make reservations, or did tables just miraculously appear for them? And in that case, would the staff even be aware of their presence, or did their table exist in a state of limbo—available to be served but invisible to passers-by and possible guests? Did a name appear on the maître d's list, or was it a sort of... North Pole situation?  
  
Upon seeing her confusion, the maître d' let out a knowing and breathy ‘ah!’ and beckoned her to follow.  
  
Penny grinned in amusement at that; what about her bumbling and drawn-out ‘uhhhhhhh’ had said ‘yes I’m with those two odd fellows in the back, the ones who always polish off an alarming amount of your best wines’?  
  
Aziraphale was the only one at the table, which Penny found odd. She’d always assumed that if they went somewhere, they went together. As if the Bentley wouldn’t start without all required parts (not so much the key, but rather the key passengers).  
  
When Crowley had invited her to join them (a proposition which she had devoted far too much analysis to already), he had offered to pick her up. And while it would have been cheaper than the cab, she had balked at the idea. She’d been trying (and more-often-than-not failing) to maintain a detached distance from Crowley. She’d been falling on him as a crutch lately, using him in a very carnal fashion every time she felt stressed, lonely, depressed, broken-hearted, or even just bored. It was becoming a frightening habit, and she was worried it was hindering her ability to find a normal, healthy relationship. Which didn’t bode well—she couldn’t just fuck her demon for the rest of her life, she needed... _wanted? _ to find something normal. A human her own age that understood human things and emotions in a more grounded sense. Crowley understood the range of human emotion (in fact he had a habit of plowing through all of them in a span of seconds), but he considered himself removed from them—above them. Which, of course, was laughable on a cosmic level. Crowley was monstrously emotional, he just buried it quite effectively under his suave, cool-guy facade.  
  
“Oh! Penelope, I didn’t know he’d invited you,” Aziraphale said, standing quickly and pulling out a chair for her before the maître d' could.  
  
Penny’s heart did her the distinct disservice of falling into her stomach at this new information as she sat as delicately as she could manage. Normally this lack of forewarning would be no big deal, but... the Ritz was Crowley and Aziraphale’s thing. If he hadn’t let the angel know his plans, it was for a reason. And probably not a good one.  
  
“I suppose he just forgot,” she lied, and the scrunched-up face Aziraphale made as he sat—elegantly replacing his napkin in his lap—told her that he, too, found this unlikely.  
  
A waitress appeared quite out of nowhere, startling Penny as she asked haughtily “what would the young lady like to drink?”  
  
Immediately, Penny had to shove back the urge to reply ‘the lady would like a beer and a pair of sweatpants,’ but instead she settled with, “whatever the gentleman is having.”  
  
“Are you certain, sweetheart? You enjoy reds?” Aziraphale asked, and upon receiving Penny’s nonchalant nod (stemming mostly from a need to drink quicker than she was capable of skimming the vast menu), he continued with impeccable pronunciation, “Château Léoville Poyferré, and bring the bottle if you wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“Of course, sir,” the woman assented, nodding as she disappeared from sight.  
  
“Well, then,” Aziraphale huffed, tangling his hands atop the tablecloth. “What do you suppose this is about, then?”  
  
Before Penny could blurt out any of the many assumptions she’d already formulated, the demon himself came strolling electrifyingly through the restaurant, his sharp black suit, sharp edges, and mysterious dark sunglasses drawing the attention of quite a few impressed Ritz-goers.  
  
He fiddled with a cuff link nonchalantly as he slumped into the seat opposite Aziraphale, basking in the balanced confusion of both his fellow diners.  
  
He grinned, something akin to _‘that’s clever, should I say it? Yes.’ _ flashing across his features.  
  
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today,” he said, his delivery too proud to keep up the nonchalance.  
  
“Practice that in the car, did you?” Penny asked, becoming the proverbial needle to his look of ‘deflated balloon.’  
  
He cleared his throat, snapping and pointing somewhat rudely at his wine glass as the waitress returned.  
  
“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale butted in, mouthing a quick ‘thank you’ to the woman as she obligingly filled all the glasses on the table, then set the bottle in the center.  
  
No sooner than the waitress walked off, Crowley greedily grabbed his glass, downing most of it. While this might have usually passed for normal with Crowley, there was something about the way he couldn’t seem to sit still—rapping his knuckles against the table and constantly shifting in his chair, looking around as if analyzing the threat level of every person, chair, and chandelier.  
  
If Penny had learned anything concrete about her demon counterpart in the months since their bonding—for lack of a better term—it was that he existed in a perpetual state of precariously veiled tension. Like a tightly-strung ball of rubber bands; stretched to within inches of its breaking point and yet masquerading as a cohesive whole. And the masquerade was good—all sharp edges and an even sharper wit.  
  
But he had a tendency to snap at all the wrong things; those metaphorical rubber bands would hold even when the ball was bounced viciously, but suddenly rupture just from having set on the desk too long.  
  
And currently, he looked just about ready to snap—a mental state that Aziraphale seemed wholly unaware of as he perused the menu lazily through mid-nosed reading glasses.  
  
“Are you okay?” Penny asked hurriedly, hushed, which prompted Aziraphale to pause, lowering his menu and peering intensely at Crowley, only making the demon squirm under the scrutiny.  
  
Crowley went to laugh mirthlessly, but it quickly devolved into a hiss, complete with an agitated flick of the tongue.  
  
Recognizing these very obvious signs, Aziraphale straightened, laid his menu flat on the table, and removed his glasses and placed them in an inner jacket pocket.  
  
“No interrupting, no arguing, no back talk. That clear?” Crowley said, pointing mainly at Aziraphale, his tone suddenly very sullen.  
  
Penny didn’t know how to respond, so she simply shrugged. Aziraphale on the other hand...  
  
“My dear, the theatrics really don’t see...”  
  
“Not theatrics, angel. I’m serioussss,” Crowley barked, his obvious distress forcing the hiss.  
  
Aziraphale was indignantly silent as he stared unyieldingly at Crowley. For a moment, it seemed like nothing short of a nuclear bomb could dislodge the warring eye contact.  
  
It was Aziraphale who relented first. “Fine,” he said tartly, fiddling with the salad fork and then realigning it. “But if you think that you can bring me into a public place in the hopes that I won’t get upset with you, for whatever reason you seem to have in mind, you are sorely mistaken.”  
  
Penny could see Crowley narrow his snake eyes, even through the glasses.  
  
“Not why I invited you, but noted,” Crowley snapped.  
  
He fidgeted, as if suddenly realizing that his time to speak his piece had come, and he hadn’t prepared where to start.  
  
“Right,” he started, manhandling the wine bottle by the neck and generously pouring himself another glass. After setting the bottle down with a table-rattling thud, he grabbed his glass but just held it close to his chest—not unlike a lifeline.  
  
“This discorporation thing,” he began, and Penny felt herself flush. Crowley had been steadily devolving mentally since the Trinity was formed, and it was all due to his uncertainty involving discorporation. Penny had managed to shirk the topic for almost a month by distracting him in one way or another, mainly because she had no answer—she had no clue what would happen to him if he was discorporated, and hadn’t made any headway on trying to figure it out. This, despite many sleepless nights spent scanning The Necronomicon, the Wicca Book Of Spells, The Grimoire, and the baffling Malleus Maleficarum (roughly translated, of course). As it turned out, not many witches had actually tried to maintain the presence of a demon, and even fewer yet had cared enough to try to ensure said demon didn’t get hurt.  
  
Beside her, Aziraphale flustered, rolling his head slightly along with his eyes.  
  
“This again, my d—“  
  
“Hey! What did I ssssay about back talk?!” Crowley hissed accusingly, finally taking a swig of his lifeline.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, nodding and staying indignantly silent.  
  
Crowley nodded in his victory, and continued.  
  
“I can’t—“ Crowley began, his tone taking a sharp 90° turn from scolding parent to terrified child. He tried to strengthen it by clearing his throat, but ventured more into bashful territory.  
  
“I can’t handle it anymore—not knowing,” he confessed, his eyes cast very intentionally into the tablecloth, the sunglasses barely hiding it. His hand had begun to grasp his wine glass quite hard, the liquid sloshing as it started trembling. “I’m sure Penny’s noticed, but... can’t sssleep anymore, can’t...” he swallowed hard. “Can’t concentrate, can’t even keep a solid grip on reality. Everything’s ssso... just so maddeningly terrifying. Any second could be the last, and it’s just _too human_ for me to bear. Thought I’d have a couple of lifetimesss before they got me back, but every natural disaster, every wayward gunshot, every... freak car accident... could send me back. And I have to know. It’s not that I’m afraid of dyi—_discorporating_, someone only knows, I’ve done it my fair share of times. It’ssss the not knowing. And I’m not exaggerating when I say... I cannot. _Handle it_. Anymore,” he finished finally, spacing his words deliberately. His free hand had balled so hard against the table that he’d gathered a fistful of tablecloth.  
  
Aziraphale sighed, pity obviously replacing his earlier indignation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking his own wine and gulping at it nearly as frantically as Crowley had.  
  
Off to Penny’s left, the waitress looked like she might stop by for their orders, but with a demonic blink, it was suddenly imperative to her self-preservation that she be literally anywhere else.  
  
“I take it you have a proposition, then?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly, his tone telling all present that he knew the part Crowley had assumed he’d protest was forthcoming.  
  
Crowley ground his teeth, then polished off the second glass and slammed it to the table.  
  
“I do,” he said, sniffing irritably. “I’ll need to be able to return to my corporation, in case we find out..._ the worst_,” his breath hitched, and he poured a third glass. “And there’s only one way to remove me from my corporation without damaging it.”  
  
It seemed like someone had popped out the cork keeping Aziraphale together, judging by the velocity with which blood left his face. He stiffened, his bright blue eyes going hazy.  
  
“My _dear_ Crowley...” he gasped, lowering his glass to the table as if it had suddenly become a tremendous weight. “You can’t possibly mean...”  
  
“I do,” Crowley replied quickly, pinching the stem of his wine glass and twirling it anxiously, all the while refusing to meet the angel’s questioning gaze.  
  
“Uh... sorry, outsider present,” Penny piped in with a slightly raised hand, her curiosity threatening to tear her in two. “Explain, please?”  
  
Crowley sighed, obviously taking up the mantle as Aziraphale bristled. “Exorcism—only way to banish me from my physical body without damaging it.”  
  
Before Penny could inquire as to the seriousness of such a suggestion, Aziraphale clued her in.  
  
“Really, Crowley...” he gasped hard, his eyes intense and worried. “You can’t think that... I mean, _honestly_... it took you almost fifty years to compose yourself after the last one...”  
  
“Fifty years??” Penny exclaimed. It seemed like an awfully long time to spend mentally unstable, but... perhaps that wasn’t so bad for an immortal.  
  
“It wasn’t... I didn’t...” Crowley began, but seemed to balk at belaboring the point.  
  
“And you’d ask this of me...” Aziraphale exclaimed, taken aback. “After all this... _after everything...” _  
  
“I’m sorry, back up,” Penny interrupted, to which Aziraphale inhaled sharply and sipped his wine. “Why you?” she directed at the angel.  
  
Aziraphale puffed up to answer, but Crowley was quicker.  
  
“Only an ordained priest can perform exorcisms. Priests...” he paused to peer ruefully at Aziraphale. “Or angels.”  
  
Penny’s heart felt like it plummeted into her heels; it made sense now. He was asking his best and oldest friend—an angel who had sacrificed part of his soul to the Witch’s Trinity in order to save him—to turn around and kill him, in essence. And they had no guarantee that it wouldn’t be permanent.  
  
“Crowley, you can’t ask this of me—” Aziraphale said, his voice suddenly very small.  
  
“I can, and I am,” Crowley replied testily. “I need you to do this for me.”  
  
“No, no, you _want_ me to. Don’t confuse your instability for genuine need—” Aziraphale harshly snapped back.  
  
Crowley flushed with anger, slamming a fist on the table and making the flatware ring. Oddly—or rather very intentionally—no one noticed.  
  
“Inssstability?!” Crowley hissed, leaning forward. “_How dare you, Aziraphale. _ You have no idea how I’m fee—“  
  
Crowley balked on the word, obviously wary of breaching the topic of his own feelings—_God forbid_. His tone became very low and icy then,  
  
“I will not have a repeat of Valais, angel, I simply won’t.”  
  
Aziraphale looked properly wounded.  
  
“Oh, Crowley... that was completely different...”  
  
“Ngk,” Crowley scoffed, rearranging uncomfortably. “Not that bloody different, angel. I asked you... _I begged you. _ And what did you do?”  
  
Aziraphale looked like he might cry.  
  
“And I’ve apologized profusely...” muttered Aziraphale.  
  
Penny desperately wanted to interrupt, to ask what happened in Valais, but... she could tell by the body language of both of them that it was a very sore subject.  
  
In fact Crowley had abandoned his wine glass in exchange for bracing against the table’s edge, both fists gripping it so hard it creaked. Taking a chance, Penny reached over and rested her hand atop Crowley’s, beckoning her clairvoyance out of the recesses of her mind.  
  
What hit her was dizzying; crippling nausea, stinging pain through every nerve in her body. The smell of smoke radiated through her consciousness, and distantly, she thought she could hear someone screaming.  
  
She swallowed hard, pushing the transference away and snaking her hand around to squeeze Crowley’s.  
  
“Hey,” she whispered, trying to pry his hand from the table and only managing to rock it back and forth a bit. “You’re okay...”  
  
Crowley jolted as he came out of it, looking quite disturbed with his momentary dissociation before softening unexpectedly. “I know,” he said to Aziraphale. “And I forgave you a long time ago. But I... I am just as desperate now as I was then. _Please, angel?!” _  
  
The silence that followed weighed so heavily on all involved that it seemed the restaurant had dropped away and left only their little white-draped table in a suspended state of catatonia.  
  
“Fine,” Aziraphale said curtly, finishing his wine with a hearty gulp. Crowley let out an audibly relieved sigh, his shoulders slumping as he picked up his wine once more.  
  
“I’m not thanking you,” he said, the corners of his mouth pulling into a tiny, reserved grin.  
  
Aziraphale did the same, though his was tinted with remorse. “I wouldn’t expect less.”  
  
Penny finally relaxed, feeling the tension at the table finally abate and float away into the chandeliers above.  
  
“Well that’s all well and good,” she started with a bit of flippancy. “So why am I here?”  
  
Crowley grinned wider at her attempt at levity, but it quickly faded.  
  
“Technically... I need your permission to go through with it,” he replied with a hint of disdain. “And you’ll need to be there... when we... do it. So we can figure out where my soul goes when I’m… removed.”  
  
“Oh,” was all she could muster. She didn’t relish the idea of being part of an exorcism—especially one that would banish Crowley. But he obviously found it the only reasonable route to the answers he sought, and he was clearly determined.  
  
“And if the… if _the worst_ is confirmed…” he said, his voice catching and forcing him to clear it. “Then I may need you to… er… forcibly summon me back. Aziraphale can cast me out, but… only a witch can summon me from Hell, if I can’t get out myself.”  
  
“Yeah, fine... good,” she mumbled, feeling her pulse slamming in her neck and grabbing her wine for the first time to down it in a very Crowley-esque manner.  
  
He beamed with pride at her drinking prowess, finally waving down the waitress.  
  
“We’ll be needing another bottle,” he said nonchalantly.


	8. Exorcismus, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has only been exorcised one time in 6000 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+  
Violent imagery and some body horror. Nothing too intense, I don't think. Tell me if I'm wrong though.  
Also, I call the woman in this chapter a girl a few times, but this is done in a kind of condescending way, not to show she’s a child. I see her as 19 or 20ish.

_Salem, Massachusetts, USA. 1692. _

Aziraphale stood in the corner of the bedroom, in the home of the infamous Elstons, absolutely panicking.  
  
He and Crowley had discussed exorcisms once, broadly, and a very long time ago. Crowley, ever the wily serpent, had never been exorcised, though he had had some horribly close calls. The problem, he said, was that the words in the Latin ritual were broad, intentionally so, in order to encompass the whole of their intention to be rid of the demon from whatever the priest was attempting to exorcise, be it home or human. But therein lay the problem. _‘Exorcismus te’_ simply meant ‘I cast you out.’ Lacking the ‘corpus’ bit, the demon could simply flee the general vicinity, and voila! They have technically been cast out.  
  
Now, obviously, exorcisms had been successfully completed in the past, and this, according to Crowley, had been because those specific demons were trapped, or otherwise unable to flee, ergo the ritual affected them.  
  
And the effects of those exorcisms, again according to Crowley (the screaming, the twisting limbs, the general demonic shenanigans) had been a bit of pomp—just incredibly well-acted theatrics to give the humans who’d trapped them Hell. Or a slice of it, anyway. Crowley didn’t believe exorcisms were really all that bad. After all, he’d argued, demons were used to the torments of Hell; nothing short of true annihilation could make them scream and writhe like that.  
  
This, as it turned out, had been laughably incorrect—the naiveté of a demon who’d never felt one.  
  
When Aziraphale had arrived at the Elston home, summoned with Father Colbrunn, who he’d been stationed with by Heaven, it was already too late.  
  
The young woman Lenora Elston, whom Crowley had been influencing for months, had apparently been accused of witchcraft. Aziraphale had seen it brewing1, had seen the way the other girls flocked to her, the way they snuck out at night, the way they leaned in close and listened to her every utterance. He’d even warned Crowley, with the hysteria going around, not to get himself too involved with that girl. ‘You’re playing with fire, my dear,’ he’d cautioned.  
  
Crowley had just grinned wickedly and said, ‘that’s what I do.’  
  
And, in an effort to spare herself, Lenora had turned on Crowley, exposing him for what he was and saying that she only did what she did because of his demonic influence. Of course, the townsfolk didn’t actually believe he was a demon, but rather thought he was a man _possessed_ by a demon.  
  
And Lenora had been painfully careful about her trickery. She knew weeks before she was ever accused that suspicion was rising in her direction. So she had continued on as usual, never letting on to Crowley that she planned to double-cross him.  
  
And, earlier this very evening, having coaxed Crowley into her bed2, she tied him to the bedposts with ropes she herself had blessed (she had only spoken the words, not doused them in holy water, which explained why they restrained him and sapped him of his power, but didn’t actually _harm_ him). And then she’d put on a marvelous show—screaming for her mother and crying, apologizing, swearing that this man, this _possessed man_ had climbed in through her window, tried to tempt her, had been whispering vile things to her for months. And when she had exposed his eyes, his monstrous eyes, well… that was all she wrote, as the humans say.  
  
Aziraphale had accompanied the Father to the home, when he was summoned upon the witching hour from his bed, and now stood, frozen and helpless, watching as Father Colbrunn gathered his things, and Lenora and her parents huddled in the corner watching.  
  
Aziraphale briefly considered a quick miracle—unbinding Crowley, making the humans forget, transporting the two of them far from here—but he had been sent to this town specifically by Heaven, to investigate the rising ring of reports of witchcraft and demonic interference. And while the reports were wildly exaggerated (just a young, feisty woman calling others to follow in her path, and an opportunistic demon happy to take credit for things already afoot), it likely meant Heaven was watching. So Aziraphale _freeing a demon_ right in front of their watchful eyes… it simply wasn’t an option.  
  
He wrung his hands together as the Father read the words, worried at his lip as Crowley began to struggle. A bit of theatrics, he had said. Not painful, he had said.  
  
But it became clear very quickly that Crowley had been wrong. Aziraphale knew what Crowley’s theatrics looked like, and crying was not one of them. Screaming… _not of this magnitude_, was not one of them. Choking and heaving and _begging…_  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t handle much more of it, and, knowing he couldn’t intervene, he decided to quicken the discorporation. In the midst of an exorcism, a bit of smiting would fly under Heaven’s radar anyway.  
  
Influencing the gathered humans to not notice the glowing man behind the priest, he had done so, carefully mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ to a demon who was in too much pain to notice.  
  
And when Crowley had stilled, Aziraphale’s heart doing the same, he’d thought it was over. When the priest stepped forward and checked Crowley’s pulse, sighing brokenly and closing _those beautiful eyes_ with two fingers, saying ‘he’s gone’ in a hush, he’d thought it was over. When the family turned, comforting their weeping and traumatized (but probably secretly relieved) daughter, he’d thought it was over.  
  
Crowley had never mentioned what happens _after_ the exorcism, probably because he didn’t know. He never said that an exorcised corporation was still usable, never said that Hell operates on a ‘not my problem’ system. Never said that body-makers down below were lazy and selfish, and preferred to just ‘send ‘em back up.’ Never said that returning to an exorcised corporation was like walking into a burning building and staying there.  
  
It had only been ten minutes since Crowley went still, and Father Colbrunn was speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Elston—ensuring that the girl hadn’t been tainted by the demon’s wiles, ensuring that all suspicion of her should now be put to rest. Aziraphale had stood staring at Crowley’s lifeless body with complete and utter shock, barely managing to traipse forward and untie the blessed ropes. The feeling of Crowley’s skin, cold and unmoving, the sight of his forcibly-closed eyes… it was unsettling to the angel’s soul.  
  
But he never could have prepared for what came next.  
  
Crowley’s chest suddenly rose in a desperate gasp, and an unholy screech tore from his lips. Aziraphale had only just stumbled back in his shock when Crowley’s arms flailed out, his long black claws extending from his fingertips and shredding the bedclothes. Every human present was frozen in their fright, watching as the demon bolted upright, massive black wings bursting from his spine and long, pointed fangs dropping over his lip, dripping saliva like a feral hound. His eyes glowed hideously red, and a growl that frightened even Aziraphale reverberated around the entire house.  
  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked quietly, abandoning his human ruse in an attempt to capture the demon’s attention.  
  
Crowley had only eyes for Lenora Elston, who stood trapped in his shining red gaze like a deer struck by an arrow. She shook from head to foot, her eyes blown wide in terror.  
  
When Crowley spoke, it wasn’t English—or any language familiar to Aziraphale. It was Hellspeak, a language Crowley adamantly _hated_—said it sounded like someone found a way to combine Latin with what a raven would sound like tied to the underside of a horse’s galloping hoof. Crowley very specifically _never_ spoke it. Ever.  
  
“You,” he thundered at Lenora. “You did this.”  
  
The young woman collapsed to her knees in the face of her accuser, even as her terrified parents attempted to drag her to her feet, to flee the cabin. Father Colbrunn clutched his Bible to his chest and, to Aziraphale’s horror, began chanting.  
  
“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”  
  
_“No!” _ Aziraphale cried, but it was already too late.  
  
The words had captured Crowley’s attention like a beacon in the night, and he rocketed from the bed, his wings propelling him so hard into the priest that Aziraphale was certain the man was dead before he hit the ground. The draft from Crowley’s wings knocked the furniture and candles asunder, and the cabin went up within seconds. Crowley, however, rose slowly from atop the priest’s body, the flames barely competing with his still-glowing eyes as he stalked toward Lenora.  
  
“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was the only way, please forgive me…” she cried, her mother still yanking at her shoulder. Her father had fled moments ago, but by the look of determination that had been written across his features, it was only to seek out a weapon.  
  
_“Forgive you?!” _ Crowley screamed, still in the language of the damned. Somehow, Lenora seemed to understand, shying away from him and covering her eyes, still muttering helplessly, “please.”  
  
“Forgiveness is not in my nature, little girl,” he growled, but something seemed to strike him, a massive pain, and he seized up, throwing his head back and crying out as his form began to blur—it was as if he could no longer sustain it, and his lower half suddenly became the serpent; ten feet long and black as pitch, his brilliant red underbelly mimicking his red ember eyes.  
  
He fell forward with a yelp, his wings beating hard, but not in tandem—very much resembling a downed bird.  
  
Lenora’s mother succeeded in pulling her daughter to her feet, and with one quick, fearful glance at Aziraphale, fled the cabin with her kin.  
  
_“Crowley?” _ Aziraphale asked again, both fear and pity making it barely more than a whisper. The heat of the flames climbing the walls behind him did little to draw his concentration as Crowley howled in pain, his human-like appearance returning. His long limbs clawed outward for a moment, before he rose onto all fours and spit out a heaving mouthful of blood.  
  
Aziraphale took a single step forward, attempting to approach, and the demon panicked, swiping out blindly with a clawed hand and slicing three long gashes across the angel’s chest. The sting of it was enough to make Aziraphale stumble back, and in that time, Crowley launched upward, his wings propelling him with an explosion of wood splinters straight through the cabin’s roof.  
  
“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, running from the cabin’s front door and preparing to unfurl his wings to give chase.  
  
Crowley’s volatile exit had sent burning debris scattering, and homes, tress, and grasses alike were beginning to catch.  
  
If Heaven wasn’t watching before, they certainly were now.  
  
“Bollocks,” Aziraphale cursed, bending to unleash his wings but pausing when he heard it; a crash nearby, in the forest, and a shriek that sounded suspiciously like Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale ran, following the sound to a clearing just past the tree line, and his heart plummeted into his ankles.  
  
Crowley was down, and it appeared he’d gone down hard; his left wing was hyperextended, and his crumpled body lay atop it, panting unnaturally like a rabid dog. He was still trying, still reaching; dragging himself by his arms, but to where, Aziraphale didn’t know.  
  
He jogged closer, but it only made Crowley panic again, pushing to his feet, only to put weight on an obviously broken leg. He screamed, falling again and bringing his good wing up to shield himself.  
  
“Misericordiae… angelus… misericordiae…” he begged, his Latin broken by sobs of pain and gasping breaths.  
  
Aziraphale looked over his shoulder conspiratorially, ensuring no Heavenly sentries had been sent to investigate the chaos, before collapsing to his knees and scooping the demon up to hold him.  
  
He struggled, clearly delusional and afraid, slicing at Aziraphale with his claws again. Aziraphale avoided them rather easily, as Crowley’s strength was at near-human levels now, and clasped his arms around the demon’s entire torso, trapping his arms at his sides. He whimpered, still weakly trying to pull away.  
  
“Shhhhh,” Aziraphale cooed, looking around the clearing again for humans and angels alike. Blessedly, they were still alone. “I’m here, it’s me. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”  
  
He rocked him, unsure why he was doing it, but doing it all the same.  
  
“A—angel…” Crowley whined against his shoulder, his voice broken and hollow.  
  
“Yes, my dear. It’s me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know,” he said, pulling back to look on the demon and finding, finally, soft yellow eyes, however darkened they were with pain and betrayal.  
  
The sounds of screams could be heard from the village, and the dancing silhouettes of trees were outlined in orange as the flames quickly spread, thin bellows of smoke slithering into the clearing between the shadows.  
  
Suddenly Aziraphale felt something—a warmth and light spreading within his chest. He looked up, finding what, to most humans, would appear to be a shooting star.  
  
“Oh, no… _no, no, no_,” he mumbled, looking over the battered and broken demon before him and knowing what he had to do.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” he muttered, clutching him closer for a moment and feeling the agony in his aura. “I have to go. They’ve sent someone. I have to get them away from you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Crowley.”  
  
The demon barely reacted as Aziraphale slowly set him down, his body still shivering and jerking with phantom pains Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to fathom. They would talk about this one day. But right now, he had to lead whatever angel Heaven had sent away. Crowley wouldn’t stand a chance in this state, and he couldn’t… just couldn’t watch him get hurt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Pun intended  
2 Not much coaxing was likely required. Probably a ‘come-hither’ finger, or a suggestive eyebrow


	9. Exorcismus, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale performs the exorcism necessary to determine where Crowley's soul will go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+

Aziraphale hadn’t experienced a proper headache in centuries. This one was insistent, however—every time he miracled it away, it returned just as miraculously. And he knew why.  
  
He hadn’t been an active participant when Crowley was last exorcised in 1692, but he’d been present. And the sight had brought him to tears; unnatural and unbridled screams, long spider-like limbs twisting in agony.  
  
He couldn’t intervene, for quite a few long-lost reasons, but he had tried to quicken it—sneaking a bit of smiting under the priest’s muttered words. And even then, it had been torturously slow. Sometimes those screams haunted Aziraphale, both with pity and guilt that he hadn’t been able to stop it.  
  
And when he’d returned, Crowley had been... unstable, to put it lightly. He leveled almost half the town, his behavior truly demonic for the first time… _ever_. He hadn’t spoken for almost a year—to anyone—and he was paranoid, manic, and prone to fits of seclusion and long slumbers.  
  
Presently, Aziraphale willed away the headache for the third time, silently gathering candles as the source of his worry paced frantically around the bookshop.  
  
“I was able to escape it last time, so you’ll have to make it sssstronger,” Crowley hissed, pausing his finger-wringing to wave vaguely at the symbol on the floor that they planned on trapping him in for the exorcism. Couldn’t have him mindlessly fleeing in the middle of it.  
  
“You were able to escape it because I let you,” Aziraphale mumbled, bending to place the candles. “Trust me, you won’t this time.”  
  
The sights and sounds of ‘last time’ assaulted Aziraphale’s mind; Hastur slamming him face first to the ground, clawing up his back with extended claws, wrapping those same claws around the leading edge of his left wing...  
  
A gut-twisting _snap_ and electrifying pain as Hastur broke both the ulna and radius like twigs.  
  
Aziraphale jerked at the memory, his armful of unlit candles spilling into a mess on the floor as a bolt of very real pain fired up his spine and into the ethereal realm to his wings.  
  
“Bollocks,” he muttered, but before he could gather them up, Penny reemerged from the shelving to help.  
  
She paused, reaching across the pile and touching her fingertips to the back of Aziraphale’s hand.  
  
Her face twisted as she got a healthy dose of the sheer panic he was feeling at the thought of exorcising Crowley.  
  
“You alright?” she whispered, pulling her hand back and gathering candles.  
  
He wanted to put the girl at ease, but to say he was alright would be an outright lie.  
  
“Not really, no,” he replied quietly, to keep from being overheard. Crowley had enough to worry about. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it. He’ll scream, he’ll beg, he’ll cry. It’s just the nature of exorcisms—he won’t be able to help it. And I’m just not... not sure that I’ll be able to plow on, ignore it all—“  
  
His throat felt in danger of closing up, so Aziraphale let his words trail off. He motioned to the symbol.  
  
“One at every outer point, if you please,” he added as Penny began gingerly placing candles.  
  
“If you don’t think you can do it, tell him no. It’s not too late to back out,” Penny replied, finishing her side of the circle.  
  
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, who had paused his pacing, leaned against a bookshelf, and gripped his hair in two tight fistfuls. His bare yellow eyes were bordered by dark circles, and his paler-than-normal skin shined with sweat. He rocked slightly, his chest rising and falling too quickly.  
  
“Yes it is,” he said, standing and approaching the book he would need on his rearmost shelf. He was absently aware of his store of holy water three books down, and thanked Him that it wouldn’t be needed.  
  
A boiling irony seeped into Aziraphale’s very bones as he retrieved the Rituale Romanum from the dusty shelf. He smiled, wagging the book in Penny’s direction. Her expression brightened as the same realization obviously hit her—she’d been reading that book nearly three months previous, the day she’d met Crowley for the first time.  
  
Her eyes darkened as she looked at Crowley, who had turned to lean against the shelving, arm propped in front of him, face buried in the crook of his elbow.  
  
“Erm... can I ask you something?” she whispered, watching as Crowley rocked a leg frantically.  
  
“Oh you know me, my dear, I encourage it,” Aziraphale said warmly, relieved to have any kind of distraction.  
  
“What, er... what happened in Valais?”  
  
On a list of things he would have chosen to distract himself with, that particular topic ranked somewhere between ‘most gruesome ways to discorporate’, and ‘world’s worst smells.’  
  
Penny obviously read the way he slumped, read the involuntary cringe.  
  
“You don’t... have to tell me, if you don’t want—“  
  
“Well, it’s just... I’m not entirely sure it’s my story to tell,” he said, watching Crowley. The demon was positively coming unraveled, but there wasn’t really anything for it.  
  
“But... to summarize...” Aziraphale continued warily. He could give her the gist of it, and if she required more details, she could ask Crowley. “He’d been caught by a group of religious zealots mistaking him for a witch—extremists with the Inquisition. Which, in itself is ironic, since he took credit for them down below. Not quite sure how they managed to keep him from escaping, as I wasn’t there in the beginning, but something tells me it was a combination of holy trinkets and holy water.  
  
“By the time I arrived, on unrelated orders from Heaven, he’d been their prisoner for nearly a month. Mind you, this was just after our little, ah...” he paused, always stumbling on the word for some reason, “Arrangement.”  
  
Aziraphale thought for a moment, his senses recalling a nauseating amount of that dreadful night.  
  
“I snuck into the prisons to speak with him, and...”  
  
He had to pause again and battle back the bile as the images came flaring up; Crowley, sickeningly thin and caged behind iron bars. A large cross had been hung around his neck, and judging by the way it had burned and embedded into his sternum, it had been there for a long time. Hard wheezes escaped as he intermittently breathed. He tried to stand when Aziraphale had appeared, and his weak legs had only propelled him to sprawl back into the cold dirt of the prison floor. Snow was coming in the tiny cell window near the ceiling, and Crowley was shivering so violently he could barely form words.  
  
“Ahem,” Aziraphale huffed, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the awful flashbacks.  
  
He found himself wishing to be rid of the topic desperately, so he summed up rather irreverently.  
  
“He was bound for the pike, and he asked me to kill—excuse me, _discorporate_—him before they could. I... well, I didn’t... _couldn’t... I don’t know_,” Aziraphale said, flustered and considering why he couldn’t decide between ‘didn’t’ and ‘couldn’t.’  
  
“He was burned at the stake, and as a demon, he possesses a natural resistance to fire. Resistance, but not... not immunity. Thus, it... it took a very long time to kill him.”  
  
Color flushed from Penny’s face, and her expression very much said ‘I regret asking.’  
  
“Quite finished?” Crowley called from his spot against the shelves, startling both of them as they realized he’d heard it all.  
  
Aziraphale stood, nitpicking at the candle placement and using it as an excuse to avoid Crowley’s eyes. Without the sunglasses, they were much more difficult to meet than with. At least right now.  
  
“Come on then, angel. Get on with it, as they say,” Crowley mumbled, a hooked finger digging into the neck of his tie and yanking it loose. He pulled a flask of something from an inner breast pocket, downing an alarming amount before replacing it and removing the suit coat, tossing it haphazardly over the front counter while he analyzed the blinds that Penny had carefully closed.  
  
Aziraphale’s heart nearly fluttered into his throat at the sight of how absolutely disheveled and terrified Crowley looked. He considered asking him to reconsider, but centuries of seeing the demon in this particular state reminded him that he knew better—there was no stopping Crowley once he’d decided on something.  
  
Aziraphale wanted so many things, so suddenly, and so desperately. He wanted to still the vicious trembling in Crowley’s hands, beg and plead with him to change his mind. Convince him that the torture of not knowing was much less painful than what he was about to do. Drag him to the couch in the back and make him sleep for as long as it took to calm his mind.  
  
Instead, he buried his face in the _Rituale Romanum_ and pretended to be reading up on the words he would need to speak (which he was sure fooled no one—he’d known these words by heart since they’d been put to parchment).  
  
He dared to peek over the book, finding Crowley standing just outside the circle, his shaking hands unbuttoning his dress shirt at the wrists and rolling them up to his elbows.  
  
“Are you s—” Penny began to aim at Crowley, but Aziraphale interrupted her quickly.  
  
“Ah ah! Don’t, Penny. Don’t poke the bear. Or... snake, as it were...”  
  
Crowley gave him an annoyed side-eye, but the crook at the very edge of his lips told him that on some less-stressed level, he found it amusing.  
  
Penny huffed, shuffling behind the counter and sitting on the high swivel stool Aziraphale kept there.  
  
“Have everything you need, in case you have to summon him back?” he asked the girl, watching as she huffily rearranged her few sprigs of sage, matchbox, and copy of _The Grimoire. _  
  
“I still need something personal to him. Something that bears his… erm… I dunno, occult fingerprint,” she said, eyes darting over to Crowley.  
  
“What, like a lock of hair or something? Will you be needing a cauldron next?” Crowley barked irritably.  
  
Penny rolled her eyes. “No. As you’ve stated many times, your body is just a vessel. Lock of hair won’t help me much. I need something that bears your… I dunno, your supernatural _scent_ for lack of a better word. Something you _like_, something you’ve imprinted on. Something you’d _come back for_.”  
  
It didn’t pass Aziraphale’s notice that Crowley’s eyes briefly flitted over to himself, and it only made the growing weight on his chest deepen.  
  
With a gruff, distracted sigh, Crowley hurriedly fished in his jacket pocket, pulled out the key to the Bentley, and jiggled it in the air testily.  
  
“There. That oughtta do it, yeah?” he asked.  
  
Penny shrugged. “If it doesn’t, then the car itself will. I’ll just have to hop outside and do the ritual out—”  
  
“You get a single spot of that nasty sage in my car, I’ll punch you in the tit, clear?” Crowley interrupted, tossing the keys at Penny a bit too harshly.  
  
She caught them anyway, narrowing her eyes at Crowley, but obviously opted not to comment on his attitude. “Crystal,” she sneered, setting the keys on the counter next to _The Grimoire. _  
  
Aziraphale himself flicked a wrist despondently, lighting the candles around the circle with an errant thought.  
  
“Right, then,” he peeped, daring to finally look up at Crowley.  
  
If eyes could scream, Crowley’s would have. They shouted everything that the demon didn’t, or couldn’t; that he was terrified. That if his soul returned to hell, there was a very high chance they could do real damage to him before Penny could summon him back, possibly even destroy him. That if he didn’t return to hell, he would go to Penny, and confirm a terrifying reality—if his corporation was destroyed, he wouldn’t get another one. He would be doomed to either possess her for the rest of her life, or he would be trapped as a formless mass, bound to Penny yet unable to take corporeal shape.  
  
Crowley shuddered, growling in frustration and stepping pointedly over the candles and into the circle.  
  
It was quite a bit more fortified than the last time Aziraphale had put him in it, given that this time he’d had ample preparation time. But more fortification meant more divinity.  
  
Crowley gasped as he stepped fully into the circle, grimacing and clutching at his chest.  
  
“Jesus, angel...” he whimpered, his eyes shut tight. “Certainly made it stronger, eh?”  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t form words. The gravity of what he had to do now was baring down on him with the intensity of those very first storm clouds. The very first rain. The very first conversation with what was then merely an acquaintance. Not yet his only constant, not his only friend, not someone he loved dearly.  
  
He cleared his throat hard, half-turning away from Crowley to avoid looking at him.  
  
“Ready?” he asked, his voice completely betraying him as it cracked down the middle.  
  
A long pause, and then, “No. But go on. Please.”  
  
The ‘please’ was almost too much for Aziraphale to bear. Crowley did not say it, ever, unless he meant it.  
  
Humans used odd little sayings for moments like this; tearing off a plaster, break the ice, take the leap, etcetera, etcetera. And those first words were going to be the hardest, as he had to try and mean them.  
  
Taking the hardest leap of all, Aziraphale numbly began to read.  
  
“I cast you out,” he began, his voice unsteady and weak. The book began to shake in his hands, and he pulled it closer to his chest to try to quell them. “Unholy spirit. Satanic power, onslaught of the infernal adversary...”  
  
In his periphery, Aziraphale could see the effects already taking shape. Crowley had wrapped himself in his arms, beginning to double over.  
  
“Diabolical sect, in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, I command you, begone from this place... begone from this body...”  
  
Crowley yelped, stumbling back and colliding with the invisible barrier formed by the circle’s power. Aziraphale could feel his own aura, bound to the circle and keeping it closed, beginning to strain.  
  
“Begone from the souls made by God and in hi—in his i—image...”  
  
Aziraphale balked, a frightening doubt rising in his mind. _But he was an angel once, also made by God. How do I tell him to begone from something he’s always been... _  
  
Aziraphale jumped as he suddenly felt a comforting hand on his forearm. He looked up to find a very concerned Penny holding him tight. It was only then that he realized he, too, had begun to shiver uncontrollably.  
  
“Yes, thank you, sweetheart,” he mumbled, returning his eyes to the page and trying to ignore what he could see in his periphery.  
  
“And redeemed, by the precious blood of the divine lamb,” he finished finally, chancing a look at Crowley.  
  
He was trembling... no, he seemed to be at war with his own body—twitches and jerking, uncontrolled movements. He inhaled sharply, hands flying to his temples and grasping them hard.  
  
“Keep...going..._angel...” _ he gasped, suddenly sinking to his knees.  
  
Aziraphale rather impulsively removed a hand from the book and clutched Penny’s very hard for support. By the way she squeezed, she seemed happy to oblige.  
  
“I cast you out,” he began again, wondering how many times he would have to read it, how many times he would have to slash this proverbial whip across his own back. “Unholy spirit. Satanic power, onslaught of the infernal adversary...”  
  
Crowley’s eyes snapped open, glowing monstrously red as he began panting past long, extended fangs. His fingernails turned black, molding with his fingertips where they balled at his temples and elongating into sleek, sharp claws. A low, growling rumble filled the bookshop, and Penny squeezed Aziraphale’s hand again, this time in fear.  
  
“Diabolical sect, in the name and by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, I command you, begone from this place... begone from this body...”  
  
Crowley doubled over, and began muttering under his breath, rapidly cycling through modern and ancient languages alike—_speaking in tongues._ It was starting...  
  
Aziraphale tried to ignore the things he said, as they would be a barely-lucid string of babble, but...  
  
French—help me. Greek—stop. Spanish—storm clouds. Latin—_angel_. Russian—flesh. Arabic—_not my God_. Hebrew—falling. Sumerian—abandon me...  
  
Aziraphale didn’t even realize his grip on Penny’s hand had tightened painfully until she made a small, pained sound.  
  
“S—sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice shuddering with emotion. He went to pull back from her, to avoid hurting her, but she wrapped her other hand around his, caging it in warmly from both sides.  
  
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “Do what you need to do.”  
  
Aziraphale gulped down his dread, the lump in his throat threatening to close it entirely and keep him from continuing.  
  
“Begone from the souls made by God and in his image...”  
  
Crowley suddenly cried out, flailing violently against the barrier holding him. A desperate noise tore from Aziraphale’s throat, and he felt something warm on his cheeks. Penny rearranged, jamming her shoulder against Aziraphale’s and wrapping an arm under his to hold him tight. He was beginning to feel a creeping vertigo, and leaned into Penny’s embrace to avoid keeling over.  
  
“And redeemed, by the precious blood of the divine lamb.”  
  
Crowley’s claws were now viciously attacking the barrier holding him, and a snarl had wiped out the gentle features Aziraphale knew so well. His ceaseless muttering continued; languages Aziraphale hadn’t heard in centuries, truly evil words he hadn’t thought Crowley capable of speaking.  
  
“I c—cast you out,” he began again, starting to see spots and feeling the headache escalate to a migraine. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to say this many more times...  
  
He didn’t have to, but it was anything but merciful.  
  
Crowley spoke one final time, the words and chosen language tearing Aziraphale’s heart in two. They hit him like a hoof to the chest, and he slammed a hand over his mouth, stumbling and collapsing to his knees. Penny tried to ease him down but only managed to awkwardly slump with him.  
  
And when he looked frantically at the circle, Crowley was just an unmoving heap, yellow eyes open and unseeing as they stared up at the ceiling. His claws were gone, as were his fangs. It was just him... no...  
  
_Just his body._


	10. Exorcismus, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley figures out where his soul goes now, under the Witch's Trinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+  
For some... I dunno... really threatening dialogue. And some unwanted touches, all of a non-sexual nature.

Familiar...  
  
Sickeningly, maddeningly, _horrifyingly_ familiar.  
  
While several poets had gotten frighteningly close to accurately describing heaven, a scant few had managed to peg down hell. Mostly this was due to the fact that, simply on principal, more souls had managed to glimpse but escape heaven than had managed to glimpse and escape hell. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place that let its reputation slide. Simply put, if you stepped into the undertow, you _would _be sucked under.  
  
But the second reason... it was both difficult to describe in any language, and not the kind of thing you _want_ to try to describe. Just trying to think of accurate words could make one vomit.  
  
Which was a curious thing, because ethereal mass couldn’t vomit. But it could feel, and Crowley _felt_ like vomiting.  
  
He didn’t have to open his eyes to know where he was—which was just as well, because he didn’t _technically_ have eyes at the moment. He had willpower, which had taken over and veiled his surroundings much like slammed-shut eyes would. But it didn’t so much help as... delay the inevitable.  
  
He eased up, slowly allowing his surroundings to populate around his awareness.  
  
The first thing he noticed was the shape his subconscious had chosen—his favorite. Man-shaped, even retaining the sharp suit and snakeskin shoes. Most demons assumed relatively humanesque appearances except those for which a monstrous form came in handy (as in, those whose jobs involved torture, mayhem, and general satanic shenanigans.)  
  
The second thing he registered was his location... or rather, his company. A discorporation normally landed one squarely in the corporations department—across a solid bone desk (which wasn’t actually bone or actually _anything_, really, and had been materialized by the miserable demon behind it, Malachi, simply because he was Extra.)  
  
As things were, he was _not_ in the corporations department. Laughably far from it, in fact.  
  
_“Fuck,” _ he yelped, retreating frantically back as he found himself face-to-uncomfortable-face with Lucifer’s deep black eyes.  
  
The infernal beast himself had also assumed his more man-like appearance, objectively handsome despite the deep undercurrent of pulsating _sin incarnate. _  
  
He was relaxed, almost amused, seated in an office chair, his feet propped unashamedly on the surface of the opulent black marble desk before him. Crowley internally chastised himself for suggesting the workplace/cubicle theme for the executive levels of hell, because it was currently much more intimidating than the pits of flame it used to be.  
  
“Oh... Crowley. What an _unpleasant surprise...” _ Lucifer absolutely _purred, _ the low notes of it making the entire room rumble, the 'See you next Fall' coffee mug of obscenely expensive infernal pens rattling across the surface for a moment.  
  
“To what do I owe this grand _pleasure?” _  
  
Crowley wasn’t sure how, but he was beginning to tremble, even with no physical form to do so. He continued backing away until his back hit something solid, a metaphysical wall of some kind cordoning off Lucifer’s private office.  
  
“Oh, come now, Crowley, no need for the fear...”  
  
He stood, forcing a completely involuntary jolt from Crowley as he slid away from the wall and positioned himself diagonally across from the desk, opening up a bit more space between them.  
  
“Well... I suppose there _is_, actually...” he began to stroll lazily around the desk toward Crowley, hands idly in his trouser pockets. Crowley debated continuing to circle the desk and keep it between them, but ultimately decided against, as it would have been a blatant show of cowardice.  
  
“I do suppose I may have... _overreacted_ when last we met,” Lucifer said, approaching and stalking behind Crowley, which stirred a healthy dose of vibrating panic in his chest... or rather, where his chest would have been. He wanted to flee... badly; fling himself into the hallways echoing with the screams of tortured souls. Run to the lowest circles, toss himself into the pits. At least it would be merciful... in its own way.  
  
“How _are_ your wings, by the way?” Lucifer drawled acidly.  
  
Crowley stiffened like a board as a soft, deceptively gentle hand ran up his spine, putting pressure just below the scapula, where his wings would be. Flashes of remembered pain nearly incapacitated him; blinding white heat flaring across his ribs as the tendons snapped like ice, the bones creaking like so many floorboards.  
  
“No permanent damage, I presume?” Lucifer asked smoothly, pressing a knuckle against his spine and turning it a bit, bringing up awful and gut-wrenching memories of his wings being twisted until the joints gave out.  
  
No matter how desperately he tried to stop it, Crowley yelped, spinning on the spot and backing away from Lucifer so fast his thighs slammed into the desk and pushed it back a good meter or so.  
  
Lucifer grinned wickedly, holding up his hands in feigned surrender as he semi-circled back around the desk.  
  
“Touchy, touchy,” he said in a singsong, motioning to a newly materialized chair just to Crowley’s right. “Please, have a seat.”  
  
“Comfortable standing,” Crowley snapped as he maintained the distance between them, maneuvering himself behind the chair that had appeared.  
  
_“It wasn’t a request, _ but seeing as how you’re no longer _mine_, have it your way,” Lucifer growled, prompting a new flash of terror to travel down Crowley’s sort-of spine with the slimy hurry of snail tracks. The Devil slumped languidly back into his own chair, grinning knowingly as he looked Crowley up and down—as one eyes a well-prepared meal.  
  
“I can only assume that I’m enjoying your irreverent company because... you’ve finally snapped on the whole... discorporation business, hm?”  
  
Crowley bristled—shocked as to how he knew—but didn’t answer.  
  
“Oh come now, you didn’t think I was just going to abandon you up there, ignore your escapades? Especially when you’re just so..._ deliciously_ fun to watch. Falling apart over it, aren’t you? Although I will say... you’ve been rather perfecting the art of lust lately, haven’t you?”  
  
If he’d had any blood, it would have rushed to his heels. _Lucifer had been watching... studying... cataloguing... _  
  
“Cheeky bastard,” Lucifer said, waving a hand in the air and smiling as a blood red apple appeared on his desk. He studied it with a distant, unreadable expression before picking it up and rubbing it on his coat sleeve.  
  
“Apple?” he growled with a shining, winning smile, holding the fruit out toward Crowley. Crowley shook his head ‘no’ in short, jerky movements, the likely intentional irony not lost on him. He looked around anxiously, eyeing every shadow, every crack in the metaphysical walls, expecting them to start melting at any moment—molten hands enveloping him and dragging him down.  
  
Lucifer shrugged nonchalantly, bringing the apple back to his waiting, parted lips. When he bit into it, the crackle it made sounded less like an apple and more like crunching bones.  
  
“You know...” he continued, mouth full of apple. “Just on principal, I haven’t really enjoyed many of these. But they’re growing on me... pardon the pun. And at the very least, they’re ironic, so there’s that.”  
  
Just his tone alone made Crowley take another fearful step back, blinking several times and letting the shudder course through him.  
  
Lucifer clearly reveled in the reaction, and Crowley mustered as much bravery as he could to counter it.  
  
“Get on with it,” he snapped, refusing to meet the devil’s pitch black eyes. “Whatever it is, just... get on with it. I haven’t the stomach for these idle threats anymore. If you’re going to torture me, just... get on with it, or let me go.”  
  
Suddenly Lucifer was _right_ in front of him, invading his space and walking him back against the wall. Crowley cowered, turning his head away, biting his lip painfully, and regretting his words. They were an attempt at bravery, but that’s all they were—an attempt.  
  
Lucifer laughed wickedly as he studied Crowley up close, his eyes trailing first down to his chest, then up his neck, jaw, and finally to his averted eyes. He grabbed Crowley’s chin, forcing him to turn back and meet his gaze, the points of his fingertips burning like dry ice and prompting a whimper.  
  
“I’ve realized something of late, Crowley,” he whispered, sliding his hand down Crowley’s mandible to rest at his throat.  
  
“Your betrayal has created something of a miracle down here, for lack of a better word.”  
  
Lucifer’s thumb began to _oh-so-softly_ glide back and forth over where his jugular vein would be.  
  
“You see... the demons of hell know that you’ll return one day, whenever that sneaky witch’s bloodline does me the favor of kicking the damned bucket. And they know that the one who can make you _suffer the most_, can make you scream and beg and _cry for mercy... _well... that demon will personally receive all the commendations I can give, and then some. And it’s created this kind of... competition between them. They’re working harder, being more ruthless, trying to _earn that job.” _  
  
Lucifer smiled, running his tongue over his teeth dramatically.  
  
“And I like it,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “So I’ve made a decision, dear Crowley. You get discorporated, you come see me. I will personally supply you with any kind of body you want. I’ll parade you in front of them, to remind them what they’re working for. And then you’ll go back _up there_, back to your little witch-master, and they’ll _boil with rage. _ Knowing that it was _this close. _ Knowing that every time you visit, we all get reminded what’s waiting at the end of the line. It’s like... it’s like tossing scraps to starving dogs, keeping them nipping for the real meal. And they’ll eat it up. Because you see...”  
  
He paused, leaning in close enough to inhale at Crowley’s temple, a rumbling growl coursing beneath it.  
  
“Nothing breeds creativity like competition, and they’re going to get more and more ruthless every time I dangle you in front of them. So _don’t worry, Crowley_. You don’t have to fear discorporation. Think of it as a visit to the office, a begrudging trip to the DMV—which I still appreciate, by the way.  
  
“You drop in for bodies, we eagerly await yours. Just know... every second that ticks by, your eventual punishment becomes much... more... _delicious.” _  
  
He released him suddenly, pushing away and squaring off with him as he straightened his lapel deliberately.  
  
“Now then,” he said with a satisfied grin, raising a hand and spinning the black pearl cuff link on the opposite wrist. “Any questions?”  
  
Crowley nodded ‘no’ viciously, knowing that he probably looked like a child who’s been scolded yet was helpless to cover it.  
  
“Good. Up you pop.”


	11. Exorcismus, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is back from his exorcism but, just as Aziraphale feared, he is not himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+  
For a vivid description of a panic attack.

_10 May, 1945_  
  
Exhaustion was far too weak of a word to describe what Aziraphale was feeling—by several years, millions of lives, and sights and sounds that would never, no matter how much booze washed over them, be eradicated. He almost felt like sleeping, but wouldn’t admit to it... at least not to anyone other than his companion, who was walking with the ginger semi-limp of someone who can recall very recently losing a limb.

Crowley collapsed onto the bench next to Aziraphale, leaning forward quickly thereafter, bracing his elbows on his knees, and letting his head hang dejectedly.

“Just back from Berlin, then?” Aziraphale asked quietly, never having appreciated the quiet of St. James Park more.

“Mm,” Crowley grunted, shivering suddenly. The warm, pleasant midday sun beating down on them told him it was not temperature related.

“Just arrived this morning, myself,” Aziraphale continued, hoping to prod some actual words from the demon.

The war had been difficult on both of them. Endless streams of orders had come in from both sides, and those orders had been stressful, traumatizing, and had led to discorporations for both of them. But being stationed with the Nazis had taken a toll on Crowley; it was clear in the letters he’d written Aziraphale that he was completely repulsed by their cruelty and sickening ingenuity—they had discovered ways of treating people that hadn’t been practiced in the earth’s 6000 years. It was really something to say when the humans’ savagery managed to shock even a demon.

“Doing alright, my dear?” he dared to ask, studying Crowley’s corporation. He liked this one better than the last—the lanky limbs and sharp lines suited him, as did the classically handsome features and sleek dark hair.

Again, the demon did not respond. In fact, he was eerily still. Aziraphale briefly considered all that Crowley had seen, all that he’d been forced to inspire. It was true, living amongst the allies had been no picnic either, but... it paled in comparison to the brutality that permeated the axis.

Crowley suddenly straightened, steepling his hands in front of his mouth as he inhaled sharply.

“D’you ever think... I dunno, what would be different if they didn’t have language? Ruddy tower. They’ve got all these _labels, all these names. _ Jew, Nazi, good, evil, _angel, demon. _ What if they couldn’t name each other, couldn’t categorize _lives. _ What if they couldn’t _speak?! _ I mean, sure, bloody difficult it would be, at first, communicating. You and I would be fine, words are just... they’re just _extra_, with us, you know?”

He didn’t, really, but let Crowley continue on.

“But them... they’d have to just... you know, _show each other_, with actions, rather than these... damned names. Someone calls you something, and suddenly... that’s what you are? What’s fair about that, hm? What’s fair about being _labeled something_, something associated with evil, or _lesser_, or some sense. And you didn’t think you were, but they’ve gone and_ said it_, haven’t they? So then everyone just believes it, and... you start to too. It’s a bloody _mess_, is what it is. Right bloody... mess...”

He trailed off, burying his face in his hands awkwardly, the sunglasses smashing against his face. Aziraphale was distinctly aware that they weren’t just talking about World War II anymore.

He dared to rest a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, expecting a twitch and to be shrugged off.

Instead, his whole body relaxed, a long sigh of relief hissing from slackened lips. He removed his sunglasses, rubbing his eyes slightly before turning to look at Aziraphale earnestly. 

“Sorry,” he said, his yellow eyes dark and haunted. He receded back into his persona just as suddenly—replacing the glasses, shrugging off Aziraphale’s hand (though that action seemed to be done begrudgingly), and stiffening as he leaned back against the bench. “Just haven’t... dealt... really...”

“Me neither, my dear. Me neither,” Aziraphale replied quietly, daring to rest his hand again on Crowley’s forearm. He did not shrug him off this time.

A long while passed as the two of them watched the ducks. They hadn’t brought any bread for the poor things, mostly because the flippant and lighthearted action of feeding ducks was just too much to bear in contrast to the horror of the last few years. It just seemed... disrespectful, somehow.

Aziraphale thought about what Crowley had said, and couldn’t deny that it had merit. The humans spent so much time and effort labeling one another—time and effort that, if devoted to _helping one another_, could truly bring about miracles.

And... he couldn’t deny that it didn’t stop with humans. Perhaps if the cosmic powers were to do the same, they would see what he could see—good demons, bad angels, and a bunch of labels making everyone ashamed of what they were, without ever considering _who they were. _

“Do you remember yours, my dear?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, unaware that the words had been stomping at his teeth like a horse in a starting gate.

“Sorry, what?” Crowley asked offhandedly, staring at the still surface of the pond with distracted intent.

Aziraphale considered spitting out ‘nothing, nothing at all.’ But he supposed he owed Crowley an honest conversation, with things as they were currently. 

“Your... name? Your angelic name.”

The color flooded from Crowley’s face in an almost biblical sense. He yanked his glasses off as he turned to face Aziraphale, his expression hard and unreadable.

“Why are you asking me this?” he asked harshly, his yellow eyes flitting from Aziraphale’s eyes, to his lips, to his brows—trying to read motivations.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s forearm once in comfort.

“No need to get defensive, dear, I’m simply curious. All this talk of names, and all that. You don’t have to tell me. Relax,” he added the last word to no avail, as Crowley snapped his glasses back over his eyes anxiously.

Almost twenty minutes passed before either of them spoke, and it was Crowley who did so.

“No,” he said, so quietly that it could have been a brush of wind through the dead grass at their feet. “I don’t remember. Can’t recall a lot of it, actually. I can grasp... wisps, feelings—flashes of things I did or said. But certainly not my name. I have tried though, angel—to remember. But I think He took it from me. When I...”

His voice caught, and he cleared it uneasily.

“When I fell. When I got stuck with... _these_,” he raised the hand that wasn’t bogged down by Aziraphale’s and gestured vaguely at his eyes. “He wanted me to know _what I am_. A snake, a demon, a Fallen. So... He took it. Funny...”

He said the word ‘funny’ with the heavily burdened tone of a man who thinks it’s nothing of the sort.

He looked away, and Aziraphale suspected it was to hide his expression.

“And I was just talking about the damage that names can do...”

*** 

“Oh God…_ohgodohgodohgod… what have I done?” _Aziraphale gasped, beginning to hyperventilate—one violently trembling hand rising to cover his mouth as he beheld the unmoving _corpse_ in front of him.

“Az…” Penny cooed, crawling toward where he had fallen. “Don’t. Don’t look at him…”

Penny’s voice was tinny and far away. Aziraphale felt a chill coming over him, his fingers going numb, his ears ringing with panic as he stared at Crowley’s unmoving body. 

“He’s… he’s with you…” Aziraphle begged, leaping toward her, toward his only absolution, dragging her to her feet and grabbing her upper arms hard. His grip was far stronger and far harsher than he meant it to be, but he just couldn’t control them, couldn’t make his body behave. _“Please, please tell me he’s with you?!” _

He shook her desperately, a tiny blossoming fear sprouting within her eyes as he did; she’d witnessed the wrath of a demon. But she’d never witnessed an angel’s, and it was becoming clear she wished not to. Aziraphale would have normally had to the presence of mind to dial it back… but his mind was spiraling, much like his vision.

“I don’t… I don’t know. _How would I know?” _ she asked, yelping as his hands tightened on her reflexively.

Aziraphale released her suddenly, his eyes going hazy as the panic continued to spread.

“You’d know…” he mumbled, his lower lip beginning to tremble. “Oh… _God, what have I done? Please, please, don’t do this to me…”_

He stumbled back, his spine hitting a book shelf as he gripped his hair in tight handfuls at his temples. His hyperventilating worsened, and his vision began to tunnel. Penny launched herself forward to wrap her arms around him and pull him into a tight, swaddling embrace. Except it wasn’t comforting, wasn’t reassuring; he felt like a thousand bugs jammed into a bag—itching and crawling and _dying_ to get out. 

“Please calm down, a—Aziraphale,” she whispered, sounding for a moment like she was going to say ‘angel,’ and noticing when Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat.

_What if summoning him back doesn’t work? What if they were able to block it somehow?! He’d be gone forever, I’ll never speak to him again, touch him again… never look on those gorgeous eyes, that wonderful wicked smile… and the last thing I did was… hurt him! _  
  
“Aziraphale... _Az!” _

Aziraphale jumped as Penny’s raised voice broke through his thoughts. 

“Did you hear me? How long should we wait? ‘Til I try to summon him back?”

“Oh... er...” he mumbled, pieces of his flashback suddenly screaming out their relevance as he stepped away from her; Crowley had said he didn’t remember. His time as an angel, his name, and by default, his _language. _ How, then—_how_, after stringing together a barely coherent mess of babble, had he managed to perfectly speak the words ‘forgive me love’ in a _language he had presumably forgotten_? And _why?! _ Why on His green earth had he chosen _that language?! _ Did he need something to be clear, something that couldn’t be expressed in any other language but Enochian? Was it... _was that why he used the word ‘love?’ _

The frantic spinning of the cogs in Aziraphale’s mind rivaled those of the pocket watch he shakily pulled from his jumper.

“Time doesn’t really... pass like it does here,” he said, thinking about 1944, the last time he’d returned from a discorporation. He’d thought that he’d been in Heaven for a few hours, but upon returning to earth, he’d realized almost a month had gone by. Although... he wouldn’t put it past Hell to be the exact opposite—a few minutes on Earth equaling months... maybe years in Hell.

“Well, I...” he began, but a movement caught his eye.

_Crowley’s chest—breathing. _

With a blink, the candles around the circle vanished, but he wasn’t quick enough to reach Crowley before he became aware.

Returning to a corporation was a jolting experience in and of itself—one goes from being weightless, painless, and all-encompassing... to being jammed into a very mortal(ish) body, with little aches, needs, and quite painful self-awareness. Aziraphale recalled the first time, and the pain and confusion that had obviously overwhelmed the poor demon—returning had seemed worse than the exorcism itself.

Crowley gasped, his whole body going rigid for a moment as his hands flailed out to clutch at his surroundings. He then shrieked like a wounded animal, desperately crawling and dragging himself to the nearest corner he could burrow into. He curled in on himself pitifully, slamming his palms to his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. Aziraphale followed him gingerly, sliding to his knees a few feet away and holding a hand out toward him as he slowly inched closer. 

“Crowley... Crowley, can you hear me?” he asked, and the sound of his voice prompted a pained yelp from the demon’s lips, his hands pressing harder against his ears.

Aziraphale took this for the sign it was—he was hypersensitive upon returning to his body, and probably in sensory overload. 

Aziraphale lowered his voice, speaking in hushed tones so low that no human could perceive them.

“Hey...” he prodded, gesturing with a hand to extinguish the book shop’s lights. He extended his aura around the two of them, cordoning it off and creating a little pod of sensory deprivation—no light, no sounds, no smells, and no falling dust, as even that could be painful.

“Can you tell me where you are?” Aziraphale asked, hoping that Crowley’s mind wasn’t quite as frayed as it had been after the last exorcism.

“Nihil... _maleus corpus_...” Crowley choked, beginning to rock and cringing when his clothing moved against his skin.

_Latin. Off to a bad start. _

“English, Crowley. _Where are you?” _he asked again, deciding against laying a hand on him, after just the shifting of his clothing had affected him.

Crowley began violently nodding ‘no.’

“Alright then, tell me your name,” he asked, his hope for Crowley’s recovery quickly dwindling.

The demon made a desperate sound, like he had tried to speak and balked. He immediately tried again, however.

“Crawly,” he mumbled, his voice broken and shaking.

“No, no that’s not it. Focus, my dear,” he begged, trying not to let his desperation out. “You didn’t like that one. So what is your _name_...”

Crowley shuddered, burrowing farther into the corner. But he did speak.

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes. And what is _my name?” _ he asked hopefully.

Crowley stilled, his panting slowing as he peeked a glowing yellow eye out from his elbow to glare at Aziraphale.

“A—Aziraphale, of course,” he muttered, his panting slowing more.

“Good. And _where are you?” _ Aziraphale repeated a third time.

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath before answering dejectedly, “SssoHo. The b—bookshop.”

His forked tongue flashed out repeatedly in a stressed display, a constant, hushed hiss accompanying it, but he began to calm—his arms lowering and his shoulders relaxing.

Aziraphale nodded as he reached a hand out for Crowley’s arm, hoping to move him to the couch in the back room. He’d be in no state to tell them what had happened any time soon, but he might recover quicker if he was somewhere comfortable and traditionally safe.

A desperate cry tore from Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale’s fingertips touched him, and he yanked away to slide across the wall and away from Aziraphale. The movement clearly pained him much more than the touch had, and he stilled, going completely rigid and making a frantic noise.

Aziraphale knew he could quell the hypersensitivity with a simple thought, but the intrusion of divinity into Crowley’s aura, in this state, would probably send him into a panic.

“Crowley... will you let me help? Please?” Aziraphale asked, keeping his hands well clear.

Crowley swallowed hard, closing his eyes in anticipation. He didn’t nod; obviously avoiding movement at all costs, but Aziraphale was distinctly aware of his receding defensive aura.

Aziraphale acted quickly, reaching out with his own and pouring a bit of grace into him, dulling the nerves and senses.

Crowley yelped, but it seemed to be with relief rather than discomfort, as his head rolled back to rest against the wall.

Aziraphale motioned with a hand to let Crowley know he was going to help him up, sliding it under his elbow. The demon tensed, but allowed himself to be pulled to his feet with only minor protesting.

Aziraphale tossed a worried look at Penny, who was holding her hands out toward them in a gesture that screamed ‘I want to help but don’t know how.’ Aziraphale nodded ‘no’ quickly, flashes of the people Crowley had inadvertently hurt after the previous exorcism buzzing through his mind.

He began walking Crowley toward the back room, every ginger footfall drawing a gasp of pain from the demon. It was slow, but they eventually made it to the couch across from the fireplace. Before he lowered Crowley onto it, however, Aziraphale waved a hand absently at the hearth.

The fire erupted to life, and the sound and flash of light made Crowley yelp, spinning frantically to flee but merely colliding with Aziraphale. Aziraphale grabbed him tightly, only managing to pull him against his chest, and settling for it as Crowley uncharacteristically gave in, burying his head in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“My apologies, my dear boy,” Aziraphale begged, his heart aching with guilt. “It’s the fire—just the fire. Alright?” 

Crowley nodded against him, but clung to him desperately as he began to tremble. 

“Come on then. Lie down,” Aziraphale tried, attempting to push Crowley back and meeting resistance.

“I’m—” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s clothing. “I’m sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale softened, but still pushed Crowley back. He desperately wanted to say ‘it’s okay,’ but it wasn’t, not by fathoms. But that was a discussion for another time. For now... Crowley needed to rest.

“Lie down, my dear,” he said, motioning and supporting Crowley as he sank to the couch and collapsed.


	12. Exorcismus, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has returned from the exorcism, but he is still struggling. Aziraphale does his best to comfort him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

Aziraphale was exhausting his power to keep Crowley asleep. The demon’s agony and panic was at such a level that just knocking him out wasn’t enough—he had to keep it sustained. If he laid off, even for a few moments, Crowley would jolt back to wakefulness, delusional and out of control, and practically manic.

Crowley had tried once to explain what it felt like, exorcism, when he finally reached a point where he could talk about it without vomiting. There was no angelic equivalent—if an angel was discorporated, it meant his corporation was made unlivable and he would need a new one. Exorcism was different; one’s soul was violently ripped from their corporation, without the corporation itself suffering any damage. It was technically still habitable. And Hell didn’t produce corporations willy-nilly, so they would just toss the demon back to his exorcised corporation.

Crowley explained it like being a price sticker—ripped off, and leaving strips behind—and then being hastily stuck back on. The torn pieces would never again line up right, and the edges would be frayed and curling. Crowley felt foreign in his own skin, unable to conjoin his two existences—physical and ethereal—both in a mental and bodily sense. He would settle back in eventually, but for a very long time, he said he felt disconnected from his body; his control over it being almost nonexistent. And Aziraphale remembered those side effects painfully well.

Presently, Aziraphale was quite tired, his resources nearly completely spent. He’d sat himself on the opposite end of the couch from where Crowley lay curled in an almost snakelike manner, which initially startled him. But somehow, after some time and coaxing that Aziraphale was frankly shocked had worked, he found the demon’s head laid on his lap. He miracled a copy of _War and Peace_ into his hand, and settled in for however long it would take to lull Crowley back to a semi-normal state (whatever “normal” was for Crowley—Aziraphale was aiming for his more manageable level of anxiety, but he would settle for even moderately sane).

His first hint that Crowley was waking was the aura in the room. The perfectly contented relaxation that permeated the bookshop suddenly pulsed with fear and excruciating pain. Aziraphale hadn’t even realized he was absently running his hand through Crowley’s hair, but it was just as well—it provided the immediate opportunity to press a finger to Crowley’s temple and pour every ounce of calming energy he had left into him.

It wasn’t enough, however, as Aziraphale had been consistently maintaining Crowley’s sedation for several days now. 

Crowley stiffened, an anguished hiss releasing from his lips and growing in volume when his features twisted in pain. His eyes barely blinked open, allowing Aziraphale to see such dilation in his pupils that they were hardly slits anymore but orbs. When the minimal light hit them, however, he slammed them back shut, groaning as his hands flew to his temples. His fingers grasped Aziraphale’s where they met his temple and squeezed hard.

“Mmmm... _Jesus... fuck... why does it have to hurt so bad... knock me out again, please... please, Aziraphale,” _ he moaned, his whole body beginning to tremble.

“No, I—” Aziraphale began, and he wasn’t sure which it was, but either his denial or sudden vocal intrusion into the silence made Crowley cringe horribly. His hands tightened against his temple, and his knees pulled up against his chest. Aziraphale tried to push a bit more grace into his friend, but none came.

“M’not... trying..._ I’m serioussss angel, please!” _ Crowley begged, his mouth hanging slightly open as he laboriously breathed, his fangs visible.

“No, Crowley, I’m not letting you do that to m—I’m not letting you do that again,” Aziraphale replied, his mind wandering to the 19th century, and Crowley’s longest slumber. Aziraphale hadn’t realized at the time that the demon’s absence had affected him so deeply, but much later he had come to see that he’d been so lonely without Crowley, missed interacting with someone, that he had accidentally inspired Romanticism. He had reached out to so many humans, much more than he usually did, and filled them with so much love and ethereal adoration that it seeped into everything they did—their art, their literature, even their fashion. Of course, there were worse things to inspire, and in the end it was of immeasurable benefit to humans as a whole, but... it was a dire warning of the massive effect he could have when lonely. And he didn’t fancy finding out what he would do a second time round.

That, and he was out of power.

“I really can’t, dearest, I’ve exhausted everything I had,” he whispered, taking his free hand and stroking it through Crowley’s hair once more. He winced and recoiled from the touch, turning his head away.

“Di... distract me then. _Please, anything—”_

Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes, and Aziraphale felt an immense pang of pity that raged through his heart like lightning to the chest.1

He slid _War and Peace_ from his hand, letting it rest between his thigh and the armrest, then reached out toward the front of the bookshop.

His copy of _Treasured Classic Poetry_ tried to answer the call, but Aziraphale’s dwindling power only caused it to leap from the shelf and plop down on the hardwood with all the drama of a classic film heroine in a fainting spell.

“Oops...” Aziraphale mumbled, his immediate regret being that a few pages had probably folded and bent.

He gritted his teeth as he scraped the bottom of his barrel of power, and the book lazily floated to his hand, mending its few bent pages in the process.

With the ease of one who’s practiced the art for as long as pages existed, Aziraphale propped the spine of the book in his palm and stretched-out fingers, using his thumb to turn to the correct page. His other hand, he kept gently placed at Crowley’s temple, still trying to dull his pain with whatever resources he had left. 

He turned to the most heavily used page—the one Crowley always opened it to, the one Aziraphale had long pretended not to notice. The one that still bore a spot of tea where Crowley had dribbled, and Aziraphale hadn’t had the heart to remove it. The one Crowley had dog-eared long ago, despite knowing Aziraphale’s opinion of people who dog-ear pages. These things were like a marker, a sign, a blinking red neon—“this one is my favorite.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin at the personality the page bore—a glimpse or a shadow of the one who read it most. He made a mental note to reconsider his stance on dog-ears.

He kept his voice intentionally low as he began reading, so as to avoid triggering Crowley’s hypersensitivity again.

“I have been one acquainted with the night, I have walked out in rain—”

“_Not that one,” _ Crowley sighed, his brows angled hard against the pain he was clearly in.

“But... but you love this one,” Aziraphale replied questioningly.

Crowley’s expression relaxed slightly, seeming almost amused, and suddenly Aziraphale could read the entire thought process playing across his still lips.

_“You just said I love something, Aziraphale.” _

_“Figure of speech, my dear.” _

_“Sure, angel.” _

Neither of them spoke these words of course, as it was clear both of them had already played it out in their heads.

“I know I do, just... not that one. Not right now...” Crowley continued, his grimace returning.

“Alright,” said Aziraphale quietly, turning a few pages with his thumb. He analyzed the choices, considering what Crowley would want in his current state, and why he preferred poetry to begin with.

“Ah!” he breathed gleefully, pushing his thumb down at the spine to more definitively open the pages. 

_“A snake came to my water-trough_  
_On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, _  
_To drink there. _  
_In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree_  
_I came down the steps with my pitcher_  
_And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me. _  
_He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom_  
_And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough_  
_And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, _  
_And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, _  
_He sipped with his straight mouth, _  
_Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, _  
_Silently.” _

Aziraphale paused finally, glancing down to see a crooked, half-pained, half-amused grin spreading Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale smiled himself, removing his fingers from Crowley’s temple and dragging them through his hair. At first, he recoiled and hissed his discomfort, but the longer it went on, he relaxed into it, his breathing evening out. Aziraphale continued,

_ “Someone was before me at my water-trough, _  
_And I, like a second-comer, waiting. _  
_He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, _  
_And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, _  
_And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, _  
_And stooped and drank a little more, _  
_Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth_  
_On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. _  
_The voice of my education said to me_  
_He must be killed, _  
_For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous. _  
_And voices in me said, If you were a man_  
_You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off. _  
_But must I confess how I liked him, _  
_How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough_  
_And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, _  
_Into the burning bowels of this earth? _  
_Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? _  
_Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? _  
_Was it humility, to feel honoured? _  
_I felt so honoured...” _

Aziraphale paused, conflicted at continuing on, and decided to snap the book closed.  
Crowley started at the sound, but smiled. “That’s not how it ends,” he said, his voice evening out from its earlier rockiness.

Aziraphale smiled wider. “I don’t like how it ends.”

Crowley rearranged, wincing momentarily as he did. “Like you never threw the proverbial log at me.”

Aziraphale considered this, his hand pausing in Crowley’s hair. “Well... much like Mr. Lawrence... I grew to regret it.”

Crowley finally released a full-toothed smile, daring to crack his eyes open. Bemusement crossed his features as his nearly-normal slotted pupils darted about.

“Am—am I... lying on your lap?” he asked incredulously.

Aziraphale crooked an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear any complaining.”

Crowley chuckled, but cut it off short, grimacing. “M’not now. Just... wondering. Didn’t have any customers? _Someone forbid, _ word of this gets back to Hell...”

“Shop’s been closed. And Hell’s welcome to try and enter this shop, but a demon lying across an angel will be the _least_ of their worries, I assure you that.”

Crowley blinked languidly, and he started to roll over to look out the back room’s ajar door, but he seized up with a quickly mouthed “ow.”

Aziraphale rested a hand beneath his neck, lowering him back down. “Not too soon, my dear. Can’t have a repeat of last time.”

The only reply Crowley gave was a grunted “mmm,” settling back down gingerly. “Penny?” he asked.

“I... was concerned about what happened last time. Sent her away when it was clear you weren’t yourself, told her I would give her a call when... well, when...”

“When I wasn’t so demonic?” Crowley asked, obviously forgetting what happened the last time he laughed, cringing as he dared to.

“As such... yes,” Aziraphale said, feeling a sudden rush of fondness as he watched Crowley inadvertently curl closer to him.

“My dear, I... I need to say something, and...”

He paused, his mind cogs turning as they shuffled through words that wouldn’t be off-putting.

“And you need to say it while I’m in no state to interrupt or argue?” Crowley said with a knowing grin.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the affectionate smile that immediately crossed his lips, but he fought it back and replaced it with feigned offense.

“Well, clearly I failed my timing,” he drawled.

“Apologies, angel. Go on,” Crowley replied, raising a hand to wave it as he spoke and releasing a yelp-that-devolved-to-a-hiss as he dropped it back to the couch.

This only strengthened Aziraphale’s resolve.

“I... am _an angel...” _ Aziraphale started weakly, finding within Crowley’s immediate inhale the words that waited to sarcastically spill out—“you’re an _angel?! This is news to me” _—so he plowed on before they could escape. “It is my job so spread love, to thwart evil, and to quell pain and suffering. Not only are these things my job... they are in my very _nature. _ I do not, _and cannot, _ create chaos, create pain. It is an affront not just to me, but He who created me. And you made me.”

He paused as the inevitably wounded expression sank over Crowley’s face.

“You made me hurt you,” he continued, unable to maintain contact with those yellow eyes. He diverted to the back room’s open door, nervously analyzing the wondrous golden light pouring in from the shop’s bay windows.

“And it wasn’t just difficult on principal,” he continued. “The whole point of the Arrangement was to _stop_ hurting one another. I agreed to it because I didn’t want to, ever again. And you successfully leveraged my guilt over Valais to _force me to do this to you. _ And while that is a separate issue for a separate discussion, I...”

He cleared his throat, thinking perhaps it might be safe to look back at Crowley. He was sorely mistaken—Crowley’s intense eyes were boring into him critically, unblinking and fierce.

“I think that, perhaps, if you find you must use my guilt against me for something, then perhaps it is something we ought not do. If you find that you cannot simply _ask me, _ without accepting my answer—no matter if it’s what you wish to hear or not—then perhaps we should rethink this Arrangement...”

A flash of fear crossed Crowley’s eyes, and Aziraphale felt it flicker through his aura as well. He pushed himself upright suddenly, viciously, a whimper of agony escaping as he did. He whipped to the side on the couch, facing Aziraphale and surprising him by grasping his lapel.

“I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry, Aziraphale. I wasn’t... right... I wasn’t... _ don’t say that, _please don’t say that. _ I don’t... I don’t know what I would do, without... _I can’t...” _

His slit pupils had dilated again, his hands were viciously trembling, and he seemed to be hyperventilating, despite not even needing to breathe. And he was gripping Aziraphale’s lapel as if it were the lifeline holding him back from the precipice.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale whispered carefully, noticing that the yellow of his eyes had gone red, and the entire foundation of the shop was beginning to shake—books rattled on their shelves, long-since settled dust in the rafters fell free like snow. The limited dishes Aziraphale kept on the counters danced across the surface, ringing dangerously as they did.

“Crowley, calm down, please,” Aziraphale hurried, grabbing Crowley’s wrist, which caused a yelp and an attempted recoil. Now had not been the right time, that much was clear. Crowley didn’t yet possess full control of himself.

“I would never leave you alone here, I was simply addressing a slight. Please calm d—”

Telling someone to calm down never worked, and Aziraphale knew this intimately. So he grabbed Crowley’s upper arms, yanking him forward and holding him tightly. “Breathe. We’ll talk about this another time. I didn’t mean to upset you. Nothing is changing, I’d never let it. Alright?”

The shaking of the shop slowly subsided, as did everything else. Crowley sighed laboriously, burrowing against Aziraphale and mumbling something unintelligible. 

“It’s alright, my dear. Would you like me to keep reading?”

Crowley stilled, nodding against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale affirmed as lightheartedly as he could, opening the book of poetry once more as Crowley relaxed back onto the couch, his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

He singled out the most pleasant ones—poems about nature and plants and sun. Something Crowley would enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1He did actually know what this felt like, and considered it his most ironic discorporation to date.
> 
> Author's note: The poem he reads to Crowley is _Snake_ by D.H. Lawrence. The whole thing is just... SO damn perfect for the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale. If you'd like to read it in its entirety, it can be found [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/148471/snake-5bec57d7bfa17).


	13. Exorcismus, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley feels guilty for what he made Aziraphale do, and seeks out a certain witch and a plethora of alcohol. Like... extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

The knock on Penny’s door was quiet and reserved—the kind of knock that says, “it’s fine if you don’t hear me, in fact I’m kind of hoping you won’t.” Nonetheless, she hurried to the foyer, yanking open the door expectantly.

Her heart nearly did a backflip in her chest as she found, looking disheveled, tired beyond words, and very defeated…

“Crowley!” she exclaimed, half aware that she was in her fleece pajamas, a large graphic tee, and wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t usually stand on ceremony with Crowley, but naturally drew the line at no bra. “I thought... Aziraphale said he would call me when you were feeling better. He never did, I... I didn’t... know...” she trailed off, uncertain of what it was she didn’t know. 

“Well, there’s two things wrong with that, number one; I am most certainly _not_ feeling better, far from it in fact. And two...”

He shifted his weight nervously, breaking their eye contact through the glasses and looking down at his shoes. His right shoulder twitched, and he grimaced, looking for a moment as if someone had jabbed a needle into his collar bone.

“He doesn’t know I’ve left.”

Empathetic worry raged through Penny’s veins and made her heart pump faster in her chest. When she’d left the book shop two weeks ago, ushered out by a very flustered Aziraphale, the angel had been wary of leaving Crowley’s side by even a few feet. If he noticed that Crowley had snuck out of his care...

Penny brushed that worry aside like scone crumbs, deciding to answer that panicked phone call when she got to it. She stepped forward, reaching her hands out to rest on Crowley’s arms.

He hissed hard, taking a frantic step back on the stoop, tensing as he yelped, “don’t!”

She froze in her progress toward him, holding her hands up and still—emblematic of someone who has just been snapped at by a nervous dog and is hoping to avoid more teeth.

Before she could say what she was thinking _(“I’m sorry, Crowley... it’s just that you really only stop by my house, unannounced, for one thing, and one thing only)_, he continued.

“Ssssorry,” he said, his shoulders relaxing, but it appeared strained and forced. “Jussst.... don’t. Don’t touch me, please.”

With rising pity, she remembered how hypersensitive he’d been upon returning from the exorcism—everything seemed to pain him; sights, sounds, smells, even the lightest touches. She realized this must have still been the case, but wondered why he hadn’t stayed with Aziraphale.

She sighed, dropping one hand, but turning the other over, palm up, and keeping it held out to him.

“Help me understand. Just a fingertip, that’s all I need,” she said quietly, watching as his serpentine eyes darted to her hand beneath the shaded glasses. He hesitated, but eventually raised his left hand, hissing again as he laid his palm in hers.

She gasped as it all flooded into her with the force of a freight train; excruciating knife-point pressure where his clothing hung across his shoulders, his hips. A throbbing up his calves stemming from his feet where his weight rested on his heels. And yes, a pinched tension at the center of his palm, radiating outward as he barely brushed hers.

Her ears rang with the overwhelming sounds that his hyperaware hearing was taking in; wind through the alleyway a block down, a styrofoam cup rolling across the grass in the park, after having blown from a rubbish bin. Tires on pavement, rumbling auto engines. 

Her eyes stung with the points of light that managed to seep through his glasses, as if someone had shoved needles into the back of them, and every time they moved, the needles dug deeper.

The smells that accosted her were nauseating; wet but drying pavement, cigarette smoke, somewhere. She hadn’t burned sage in more than a month, but somehow he was still getting hints of it, even from out on the porch. 

All of these sensations combined were enough to be crippling, but they weren’t even the strongest transference she got from him. Blanketed over it all, and woven together like a tapestry of just two colors, there was a strong and constant fondness twisted up in debilitating guilt. 

She exhaled hard as she dropped her hand from beneath his, realizing suddenly that she could feel tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away as it all clicked into place; he wasn’t okay, extremely far from it in fact. But Aziraphale had been caring for him for several weeks, and Crowley felt guilty. Not only for making Aziraphale do this to him, but also for then wasting the angel’s time with his recovery.

She wanted to assure him that Aziraphale would definitely beg to differ on calling it a waste. She wanted to take him in her arms and dull his pain, but knew that would only exacerbate it. So, at the end of her laundry list of “how do I help” options, she moved aside and motioned him in.

“Want a drink?” she asked quietly, her ears still ringing with the overload she had gleaned from him.

He nodded haltingly as he stepped inside, careful to avoid brushing shoulders with her. 

“Any red wine?” he asked, keeping his eyes downcast. She hurried to the light switch, flipping it off and plunging them both into a darkness barely broken by the spilled-over light from the muted telly in the sitting room. Crowley, however, sighed in relief.

“Think I’ve got some Pinot Noir, but it’s probably... _definitely_ not up to your standards,” she said with a sly grin.

He nodded, beginning to shrug from his sport coat, but pausing to hiss as the fabric dragged over his shoulders. She hurried behind him with a mumbled “here,” gingerly holding the lapel up and off of him as she helped drag it gently from his arms. He hissed again, but it devolved to a muttered “thanks” as it was finally removed.

“Noir is fine,” he continued, watching as she wandered into the adjacent sitting room and draped his coat over the back of the couch. “S’less acidic. Haven’t been able to keep much down, since...”

He trailed off, and she nodded her understanding so that he knew he needn't to continue. 

She waved vaguely at the sitting room as she made her way to the wine rack in the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable, Crowley. And you can find something to watch, or turn it off, if it’s too loud. Doesn’t matter to me.”

She gathered up two bottles of Pinot Noir and two glasses, but detoured to the laundry cabinet to retrieve a blanket from the dryer and toss it over her shoulder. It might be too much for his senses to handle, but... his snakelike physiology always appreciated warmth. 

She grinned as she found _The Golden Girls_ playing quietly from the telly when she reentered the room, Crowley lounging somewhat awkwardly on the couch.

“Really? _The Golden Girls?! _ Not exactly demonic faire” she exclaimed as she set the glasses and bottles on the coffee table. Her first instinct was to toss the blanket to him, but she stopped herself on the memory of how even removing his coat had pained him.

“S’funny, so sue me,” he snapped back, eyeing her as she stepped around the coffee table, holding the warm fleece toward him in offering. He considered as he gingerly pulled his glasses off, wincing slightly as both the metal grazed his cheeks, and the light hit his pupils. He blinked it away quickly, though, and reached for the blanket. 

She swapped them, smiling happily at the way he moaned in comfort and burrowed beneath the blanket as she took his sunglasses and set them on the table. She poured two hefty glasses, setting one in his hand, which stuck out from beneath the blanket like an amusingly nervous turtle’s head.

Plopping into her recliner with abandon, she watched him as he closed his eyes for a moment, simply holding his glass.

“Would you prefer to sleep, Crowley? You look... tired,” she said, analyzing the way his chest rose and fell shallowly.

“Mmmm, no,” he groaned, forcing his eyes back open and attempting to sit up straighter. “Been doing that for weeks. I want to drink. A lot.”

Penny smiled, watching the way he looked at his glass with what appeared to be obligation in his eyes. She sipped her own wine before speaking, “I don’t need my studies in psychology to know why you’re here.”

He looked at her slowly, his eyes narrowing. He seemed to consider her challenge, before abandoning it entirely and blurting, “you’re studying psychology? How did I not know that about you...”

Penny smiled, glad to see him finally take a sip of his wine. He made a face, obviously adjusting to the taste, but settled soon thereafter.

“You and I don’t spend a lot of time _talking_, Crowley,” she replied, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

He nodded, pursing his lips pensively. “Right...” he mused, taking another sip, and appearing somewhat... _bashful?_

Penny grinned, a wicked thought surfacing.

“Then... let’s fix that,” she said, leaning toward him excitedly in her chair. He narrowed his eyes skeptically at her enthusiasm, but she plowed on anyway.

“I’ve an idea; we shuffle through events in history, back and forth, and I will guess which of you was involved. If I’m right, you drink, if I’m wrong, I drink. Jolly good way to get proper wasted rather quickly, eh?”

Crowley couldn’t hide the devious smile that spread his lips, and a shadow of his former self shined in his pained yellow eyes.

“What’s in it for me? Besides getting right smashed, which I was planning on doing anyway,” he said, adjusting to sit up further.

Penny considered what he would want, what he delighted in...

“Alright, if I get it wrong, I drink... and you get to ask me anything. _Any personal thing you want. _ Sins, crimes, whatever. And I will answer.”

He considered her doubtfully. “Anything off-limits?”

She paused, genuinely appreciating that this was the first question he had.

“Not that I know of,” she said, burrowing back into her recliner and taking a drink.

“Alright,” he snapped with a finally relaxed grin. “Great Fire of London, 1666.”

Penny snorted. “Duh. You.”

His teeth became visible as his most wicked grin split his lips. “Nope. Drink.”

Penny’s heart fluttered. “Are you serious?! _It was Aziraphale?!” _

She dutifully drank as he responded, “Not on purpose. Was tryin’ to steer an unrighteous man back to the _holy path. _ Unfortunately the method he used to do that involved fire. Now my reward—virginity. When’d you lose it?”

Penny choked into her wine. “Starting small are we? Alright. Sixteen. The winter formal. Spent less time in my dress than out of it.”

“Knew I liked you for a reason,” Crowley commented.

“Aw, you like me?” Penny mused sarcastically, and Crowley lazily rolled his eyes.

“My turn,” she said, forgetting her own rules and drinking before she even spoke. “Woodstock. All you.”

He grinned, raising his glass and taking a drink. Penny pumped a fist in the air in victory.

“Hmmmm,” Crowley hummed, his hand wavering back and forth, cuing Penny in to the fact that he was feeling the wine already. “Guy Fawkes, the Fifth of November plot.”

Penny laughed, considering. He seemed to be giving her obvious ones, but therein lay the problem. He was giving ones she would assume were him from a surface analysis... _judging the book by its cover. _

“Aziraphale!” she declared.

He pursed his lips, impressed. He took another drink, and Penny took a moment to laugh at the fact that, by some level of meddling, Aziraphale... an angel... had been involved with the plot to_ blow up parliament. _ But then again, it had been a plot to restore a Catholic monarchy, so, like most of Aziraphale’s ideas, it had probably stemmed from good intentions.

“American prohibition,” Penny said, impressed that her already numbing lips had managed to correctly form the syllables.

Crowley scoffed. “Do either of us seem like the type to deny anyone alcohol? Neither of us. That was all humans.”

Penny groaned her disappointment. “So what, we both drink?”

“Why not,” Crowley replied, already raising his glass. He stared at her for a moment, continuing, “Boston Tea Party.”

Penny thought, the same process going through her mind.

“Aziraphale,” she dared, holding her breath.

“Clever. You’re catching on,” he said, drinking again.

Penny smiled, watching _The Golden Girls_ for a moment as she thought. “Titanic?” she asked.

Crowley’s lighthearted smile died on his brows as they plummeted.

“Mm, that’s a... that’s...” he paused, swirling his glass and staring down into it critically. “Technically nobody’s fault. ‘Ziraphale was there though...”

His voice trailed off, and Penny’s curiosity battled with her desire to keep things lighthearted. Eventually, her curiosity won out, and she waited silently to see if he would go on.

“He, er... he tried so hard to save as many as possible... went into the water with the last of them. Used his wings to keep a few above water. They got waterlogged and froze, and...”

He had to stop to clear his throat, but he quickly went on. 

“He miracled them clean again and again, but the Carpathia was too far away. Used up all his power. Eventually discorporated. Bloody... _angel. _ A survivor did write a book about her ‘guardian angel,’ though. Awfully pious and frankly unreadable, but... a nice tribute nonetheless.”

Penny crinkled up her face in disappointment. “Sorry,” she said, adding “didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

“Didn’t,” Crowley said, drinking heartily and slurring “Gagrin—_fuck_, Gagarin, I mean. Space flight, n’general.”

Penny didn’t even think about that one. “Aziraphale!”

“Nope, drink!”

“Shit!” she cursed, her tipsy brain not yet too far gone to appreciate that a fallen angel had, in some way, helped man go to the stars. She drank, suddenly aware that, even though she hadn’t refilled, her glass was as full as the moment she poured it.

"Alright... so..." Crowley began... narrowing his eyes at her as he thought about what personal question he wanted to ask. "Wass'eh first crime you committed?"

"Why do you just assume I've committed a crime?!" Penny snapped back, feigning offense by flinging a hand to her heart.

Crowley's eyebrows flattened into a look of such bored consternation that she was helpless to anything but embarrassed laughter.

_"Fine!_ It was actually a two-fer. I'd been complaining that men could just walk around shirtless, but I couldn't. Some secondary school friends of mine, male of course, said I'd be too chicken to do it, even if it were allowed. So I ripped off everything from the waist up, and ran down the street hollering. Stopped into a sweets shop and nicked a candy bar just for good measure. Should be some CC footage of it out there somewhere..."

The slow grin that spread Crowley's lips almost made her blush, but his genuine laughter was like a balm.

Before Penny could consider her next world event, the phone began to ring, and if anything, it managed to sound agitated. The worried tapping of an angelic toe on the other end was practically audible.

She smiled at Crowley, who returned it knowingly, as she stood to grab the corded phone from the couch side table.

“Hullo, Aziraphale. Yes, he’s here, yes he’s fine, yes I’m fine,” she blurted in quick succession before he even spoke. The angel’s silently shocked indignation somehow transcended the phone line, and Penny smiled, imagining the way his mouth opened, then closed again.

“Well...” Aziraphale huffed, pausing and filling her ear with a fuzzy sigh. “He really shouldn’t be...”

“He’s alright, really. Don’t think any demonic disasters are forthcoming. Unless you count white-girl-wasted as demonic...”

Crowley held his glass aloft, then drank, suggesting that he was still playing the game, and she’d gotten one right. She sniggered into the phone but tried to stifle it.

“Well... I just worry... should just pop by...” Aziraphale mumbled, an almost motherly concern in his tone.

“You can if you want, Az, but I assure you... we’re just getting drunk and discussing our exploits. Not sure you’d have much to add but some criticism,” she replied, driving the point home by suggestively licking the rim of her wine glass and making locked eye contact with Crowley. Mid drink, the demon snorted, spraying red wine into his face.

Aziraphale paused, lowering his voice for some reason. “Alright, if you insist. Just... please be careful with him, Penelope.”

A few things occurred to her as she assured him she would; one, he’d full named her, which he only ever did when he wanted her to heed his words, like a father passing on wisdom. Two... what he’d said could have been taken one of two ways—the first being that Crowley still wasn’t himself, and he could hurt her easily. The second, and more preciously likely... he’d meant it in the way one does when handing over a delicate glass decoration—_‘careful, you could break it.’_


	14. Exorcismus, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny and Crowley continue their conversation into some very personal territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: probably Teen+ for COPIOUS amounts of cursing
> 
> Also a quick reminder that He/Him pronouns are used for God, because I wrote this before the show.

Crowley wasn’t sure when one bottle had turned into four (Penny had only had two on hand, but Crowley kept the bottles refilling, first with a much nicer Bordeaux, then with whatever his increasingly inebriated brain could conjure) or when the drinking game had devolved to simply talking. The wine had had its intended effect, accurately numbing the sensory overload he was still feeling, and lulling him into a barely agitated stupor. Which was why he kept flinging more and more invasive questions at Penny. 

“So this lad... the one at the winter formal. You loved him?” he slurred, burying his hand into the bowl of puffed cheese snacks Penny had retrieved when the drunk munchies had set it somewhere after bottle number two. They were truly obnoxious; artificial color and flavor, and a powder that seemed to stick to flesh like glue. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had a hand in creating them, honestly.

“Fuck no,” Penny said, halfway distracted by Betty White’s Rose, as she monologued on being bamboozled by an O.B.M.A.G. (Obstetrician Magician). Penny giggled, turning back to face Crowley. “Weren’t even dating.”

Crowley attempted to sit up straighter at this news, but only managed to slide too far and slump the opposite direction on the couch. He corrected by throwing out an elbow and lounging as if he’d done it completely on purpose.

“Truly? D’you even like ‘im?” he asked, taking another sip.

_“Oh, I liked him alright. _ Just... wasn’t planning our marriage ‘n children. We were young, we both knew it was just... sex. Pathetic, brief, awkward sex.”

Crowley grinned. “Come on then, where was it? Bathroom? Caretaker’s closet?_ In the car?” _

“Too young to drive, both f’us. He picked the lock to the li-_hic_-lib’ry. Did it on the floor in the ‘b’s. I spefic...specifically remember looking at a copy of _Jane Eyre_ when he... well. Y’know.”

“Yes, I believe I do...” Crowley smiled, feeling his core warming with the wine and amusing anecdotes. “That s’prises me.”

“What, _Jane Eyre, _ or my first time?” she replied with amusement, and Crowley tossed a cheese puff at her, which created a yellow-orange dot on the stomach of her pajamas. “Sex is just sex, Crowley, unless both parties involved make it more. Love is... ‘dunno, love is like... knowing the other person’s favorite book, their dream vacation destination, their favorite color. That kinda shit.”

Crowley gave her a lopsided grin, only drunkenly alarmed at the fact that he knew all of those things about Aziraphale... that is, assuming that Tartan could be considered a color.

“Speakin’ of... wassur favorite color?” Penny slurred, whipping her head to the side comically to look at him, her hair flying to stick in her chap stick.

He considered for a moment, but the buzzing of wine in his head made him settle on the first one that came to mind.

“Well... at th’risk of coming off as a man-shaped stero—stereotype... blue, I suppose. S’calm. Never seen—well, not _never_, but— rarely seen anything blue hurt anyone. Unless, f’course, the victim made the mistake of undester—under_estimating_ it.”

Penny smiled, blinking slowly and swirling her wine glass dangerously. “Which r’you referring to, the ocean or angel eyes?”

He hadn’t magically sobered up, but her words somehow managed to do it all the same, at least momentarily. He hadn’t thought of this, yet it was true all the same. A provoked angel was a dangerous one, even one so preoccupied with sushi and the written word.

Crowley shook off the insight, looking back at Penny as she swayed dangerously in her chair.

“What d’you wanna do with the psychogoly... _psylocog_—fuck. Your studies?” he asked, trying to focus on one of the three Pennies currently sitting in the recliner.

“Mmm... was thinking about trauma ther’pist. _Therapist_. Mum had one a long time ago, and she really helped her. That, and... dunno, m’just fascinated by the way peoples’ brains work. Why we react the way we do to—everything. ‘Specially to... fear. We get so irrational—“

Crowley lifted his glass aloft, congratulating her on not muffing the word in her drunken lips. She responded, raising her own, then drinking in tandem with him.

“S’just... I feel like, with my clairyo—_shit_, my gift. M’uniquely qualified to understand what people are going through... and help them.”

“Mmm,” Crowley grunted in response, having already benefitted from that exact scenario. He hadn’t needed to tell her anything. One touch, and she just... understood. “Noble of you,” he added quietly.

“Maybe,” she said, setting her glass on the coffee table and collapsing back into the recliner, the footstool kicking up violently with the force of it. She giggled, looking as intently at Crowley as she could manage, her head wobbling unsteadily.

“Wot?” Crowley barked under the scrutiny, taking another sip even though he was vaguely aware of his ‘sober-up-now-or-regret-it’ limit barreling down the road toward him, honking and flashing its high-beams.

“How d’it happen?” she asked, rearranging and pulling her knees up to her chest to wrap her arms around them.

“Gunna need a bit more, love,” he said, fighting a small battle with his inebriated tongue.

“The Fall, Crowley. You’re so…_good_…”

Crowley snarled, but she kept on anyway.

“I mean, not… y’know… _saint good_… but, I just… I don’t understand how… someone so… so compassionate, and kind, and thoughtful…”

“Penny, come on. You’re gunna make me vomit…”

“M’serious! You are! You make sure people don’t get hurt, even when you’re actively tempting them to sin. You could be awful, you could just take what you want. You could be vicious, you have th’power. But you… you make sure those around you are comf’table. You _hide your eyes_, you laugh, you joke, you _smile_. I was raised to think that being a demon was just about the worst insult you could hurl at someone. S’even a bloody idiom—‘to demonize someone.’ But I… knowing you… I… see that there are so many worse things. You’re… _sweet. _”

Perhaps it was the copious amounts of wine drowning his brain, or the fact that, on some level, she was, perhaps, maybe, just a _little bit_ right about him, but he found that he just stared back at her, wordless.

“So… _how. _ How could a just, loving God… throw someone like that away? How is there any justification in that? Why should I love that Go—“

_“Penny!” _ Crowley hissed, anxiety bubbling up through the Bordeaux and surfacing somewhere close to his last remaining sober brain cells. “You’re already toeing a thin line between salvation and damnation, best not to dance on it.”

She huffed, but quieted, leaning back into her recliner and picking her wine back up. Her expression was conflicted and sad, and Crowley recognized the same helplessness in himself that arose when Aziraphale gave him that little eyebrow quirk—‘should we order dessert, my dear?’

He let out a long-suffering sigh, licking his lower lip and appreciating that he wouldn’t have to discuss this sober. He wasn’t sure he ever had, come to think of it. 

“Not to play Devil’s advocate for bloody _God_, but… I think He was much more volatile back then. Less tolerant. Less understanding. Don’t think… if a rebellion were to happen now, that He’d be as quick to pull the rug from under us… er, _them. _ Seems to find certain things just a bit more permissible than He used to.”

“Well that’s not fair! S’like… s’like going to jail for marijuana, only for it to be legalized years later!” Penny said, her volume indicative of either her drunkenness or anger. Or both.

Crowley grinned bitterly. “True. But them’s the breaks.”

Penny looked on the verge of tears.

“So… if they wanted to take you back…”

_“Fuck no!” _ he spat, his hand tightening reflexively on his wine glass as he sat up straight. Or somewhere in the direction of straight. “You get kicked out of the house, told you’re no good, you’re bloody rotten, you’re disappointing, you’re _unforgivable. _ You’ve fucked up, and nothing you can do would make it right, _ever. _ They don’t love you anymore, don’t give a flying _shit_ if you still love them. They want you gone, don’t want to have to look at you, don’t even want a reminder that you were ever even _there. _ You should be _erased, _ no! Better yet, you should suffer! _Forever! _ And for… for _what?! _ Listening when someone charming, convincing, _sensible_ started talking? And you had the… the _nerve_ to start asking those questions yourself?! All you wanted was some goddamn answers! And… for that… for that you have to _burn alive? _

“But then… ‘oh, so sorry, didn’t mean it. Overreacted a bit, forgot m’self. Chuffed to see you. Come back home, old chap. No! Fuck that… _fuck that! _ Absolutely nothing they could do, or say, could… could _ever_ forgive what they did to us, what _He did. _ If He loved us, _ever loved us_… He wouldn’t have thrown us away, like garbage, when we dared to think outside the ruddy Heavenly box. If He didn’t want me, then… I don’t want Him. Not ever again.”

With a deep, shaking breath, Crowley realized how heated he’d become, and he doused it in more wine, a shudder passing through him as he did.

“But I’m not bitter about it,” he said flatly into his glass, and Penny barked a laugh.

“So tha’s it, then? You asked too many questions?” she asked gently, tilting her head like a puppy.

He sighed, swirling his glass. “Yeah. Hung around the wrong people… well… _angels. _ And I listened. Tha’s my sin, I suppose. I listened.”

Penny’s lower lip jutted out sadly. “S’not a sin. You’re a good listener. Everyone needs to be heard sometimes. And I know someone who’s happy to have you.”

Crowley was too drunk to figure if she meant herself or Aziraphale, or Earth in general. But he didn’t particularly care to get into it. He preferred happy-drunk Crowley, anyway.

“Wait… I thought you were the one answering the personal questions. _You tempted me!” _ he hissed with a crooked grin and an accusatory finger jotted, he hoped, in her general direction.

Penny giggled. “Learned from the best.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as she used a toe to rock her recliner. Beyond her, the bottled sound of a pre-recorded ‘studio audience’ filled the sitting room.

Crowley watched her for a moment, considering—the Witch’s Trinity technically damned her. No matter what she did, she was promised to Satan. She and Aziraphale believed, however, that the deeds of her life could redeem her. If she did enough to tip the metaphorical scales in the opposite direction, then she could counteract the spell. 

Crowley wasn’t so sure, but... a trauma therapist. She could certainly do a lot of good with that. And it just might pay off.

He pushed himself shakily to his feet, feeling the ghost of his hypersensitivity send shockwaves over his skin as he removed the blanket she’d given him. He hissed in a breath as quietly as he could as a streak of fire went through the nerves in his left leg, and up his spine, firing through his secondary scapula and into his hidden left wing. He stilled, countering the random pain as he had all the others; holding still and telling himself it would be brief.

It was, but it was hardly merciful. He let out a warbling breath as it finally subsided, gently throwing the blanket over Penny, the movement almost sending him drunkenly sprawling on top of her. He caught himself on the armrest with a mumbled _‘bugger,’ _ then turned to collapse back into the couch and sink immediately to sleep.


	15. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have a conversation about the exorcism, but they are interrupted by an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+  
For mentions of drug abuse

Aziraphale had to hand it to Crowley; he was trying. He’d been forcing himself to go out, the task unimportant, really, in an effort to combat the effects of the exorcism—the lingering sensory overloads he was feeling. He was trying not to simply give up—give up and go to sleep for a very long time. He’d met Aziraphale at the Ritz almost every single day in an effort to deal with noise stimuli, but for the first few days, he’d ended up simply getting regrettably drunk, just like he had at Penny’s. Aziraphale had had to escort him out to the Bentley to sober up, willing away the judgmental glares of customers and servers alike. 

Crowley had scheduled a masseuse to come by his flat, but ended up cancelling it twice. The third try, he refused to talk about, but assured Aziraphale he hadn’t hurt the young lad.

Aziraphale had thought he was making progress, until about two weeks later, he hadn’t been able to get a hold of him by phone, and stopped by the flat. He had found Crowley lying on his living room floor, violently hallucinating. He’d even lashed out at Aziraphale, unable to identify him for a brief moment through a haze of, what appeared to be, an entire bottle of Oxycodone.

Aziraphale had forced him to sobriety himself, and did something he would never admit to/tell Crowley about/tell anyone about, ever; he loaded Crowley into the passenger seat of the Bentley, and personally drove it back to the bookshop. Drove was a strong word... “willed to move how and when he wanted” seemed more precise, and he wondered as he did so if Crowley actually even knew how to drive, or if he was just willing the car to obey him.

Twenty minutes after arriving at the shop, Aziraphale himself finally relaxed, watching Crowley sit at the table in the back, a steaming cup of black tea in front of him, forehead resting heavily in one palm. He had removed his sunglasses almost instantly, tossing them to the table as if they’d been a vice. Aziraphale had never known Crowley to dislike wearing them—in fact, they were almost a crutch, one he rarely felt comfortable going without. 

“How’s the tea?” Aziraphale tried, leaning down a bit in an attempt to look Crowley in the eyes. The demon immediately closed them, letting out a shallow breath through his nose.

“Fine, angel,” he replied, his voice hoarse as if it hadn’t been used in a while, which it likely hadn’t. “You really don’t need to keep... _babysitting_ me. I’ll deal with it eventually.”

Aziraphale grinned sadly. “Oh, my dear, you misunderstand my intentions. I’m not _babysitting. _ While my more angelic side might be a bit worried for the humans around you, I... I remember what this did to you last time. I remember what happened when you had to try and ‘deal with it,’ as you say, alone. I think, perhaps, this might be a great deal easier with some _help. _ And before you argue, I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”

Crowley raised his head lethargically, but smiled, nodding as he blinked slowly. “Alright, angel. Whatever you say.”

It had probably been meant as a snide comment, but the tone belied gratitude. Aziraphale nodded victoriously, picking up his own earl grey and sipping on it delicately.

“Are you feeling up to telling me what you found out? With the exorcism?” he asked carefully. Upon seeing Crowley’s immediate cringe, Aziraphale continued, in the hopes of taking much of the pressure off, “Penny said she felt nothing, so I do assume... I know where you... went...”

Crowley took a deep but unsure breath, leaning his head back down to rest in both palms, effectively hiding all expressions from his waiting angel.

“You would be correct,” Crowley mumbled miserably into his palms. “Went straight to the boss’s office, as it were...”

Aziraphale’s breath hitched at the thought—the last time Crowley had been in Lucifer’s presence, the infernal beast had attempted to, very slowly, discorporate the lower demon by mutilating his wings.

“He, er...” Crowley started, but had to pause and strengthen his voice with a quick sip of tea. “Said he overreacted, last time, and that my... my...”

He stopped, a shudder coursing him so deeply that it traveled through the ethereal plane to Crowley’s hidden wings, filling the book shop’s back room with the sound of fluttering feathers. Aziraphale reached over the table, wrapping Crowley’s wrist comfortingly in his hand, hypersensitivity be damned.

Luckily, it only served to ground him, not pain him, and he nodded sheepishly. Aziraphale did not, however, draw his hand back when Crowley cleared his throat and continued.

“My _treason_ has only served to inspire all the demons of Hell to work harder, to earn the right to... to, er...”

He was breathing quite hard, and Aziraphale squeezed his wrist where he held it. He’d heard enough to glean what the demon was getting at.

“Take a breath, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him. He didn’t need to, per se, but Aziraphale had always found it calming.

Crowley obeyed and, while it was shaky at best, it seemed to help.

“Anyway... long story short... he said that he’d be happy—well, not _happy_, but... delighted?—to continue supplying me with corporations, if I’m to need one. Said it would be tantamount to parading a ribeye before a pack of rabid dogs. Just... remind all of Hell what they’re working for…”

Another shudder coursed through the demon, but this one quickly devolved to a shiver that seemed to touch his very demonic core—his aura spiking with power and making the bookshelves rattle.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s wrist again, whispering “it’s alright, Crowley. He was just being dramatic, you know him. When was the last time you were discorporated, anyway? ‘51?”

“‘44,” Crowley said, the distraction making his power surge die down. “The war, Berlin.”

“Ah, yes. Me too,” Aziraphale said, thinking perhaps it was okay to draw his hand back now. He did, but he could have sworn that Crowley’s fingers followed his, like a fly to light.

“Well I wouldn’t worry myself over it, if I were you,” Aziraphale tried to be reassuring, but it came out a bit blasé. He cleared his throat, giving his friend a sheepish smile. “Modern times such as they are, there’s hardly any cause t—”

Crowley straightened in his chair, the tiny hairs on his arms standing on end as his serpentine eyes went wide.

“Angel, what are you doing?” Crowley muttered, swallowing hard.

Confusion only settled over Aziraphale for a moment, until he felt what Crowley was undoubtedly feeling—a divine presence—and a strong one at that, the aura washing over him and pulsing through to his very core. 

Aziraphale only had time to note his own hammering pulse as the little bell over the shop door rang out. He rocketed to his feet, chair raking across the hardwood as he headed for the bookshop proper, but suddenly a wall of black feathers blocked his way.

Crowley’s threatening hiss filled the shop, louder and more deeply terrifying than any earthly snake was capable of. 

“Never seen a demon protect an angel before,” came a comically relaxed voice from beyond the barrage of feathers blocking Aziraphale’s view.

“Yeah, well... my own have already tried to destroy me for what we did, don’t see yours being any different,” Crowley growled, his aura spiking with raw, infernal power that made Aziraphale’s head hurt.

Aziraphale concentrated on the angel’s aura, since he couldn’t see him, and found no malice or ill intent lying there. In fact, there was a warm, ebbing understanding that radiated like... well, like God’s own.

Aziraphale reached a hand up, gently curling it around the leading edge of Crowley’s right wing, and pulling it down.

Crowley turned his head to look questioningly at Aziraphale, but the angel had eyes only for his fellow celestial.

Aziraphale let out a long sigh of relief, which he was sure Crowley didn’t understand, because he tensed again, his wing pushing back against Aziraphale’s hand.

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Aziraphale cooed, turning to face the demon. He looked outright terrified, but somewhere beneath the (literal) fight-or-flight painted across his features, there was a layer of pure trust that was ready and willing to accept any words that were about to spill from Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s shoulder comfortingly, a rush of fondness flowing through him at the demon’s sudden and quite public display of faith in his angel.

“If they were going to come after me...” he looked back at the angel in the foyer. He didn’t recognize the face, obviously, as the corporation was unfamiliar, but he knew the aura. It was one of understanding, of empathy, of true forgiveness and hope.

“They wouldn’t have sent Raziel, the Keeper of Secrets.”

Raziel grinned, his dark skin practically glowing as he nodded primly at Aziraphale.

Crowley seemed doubtful, his wings still trembling with readiness to act. His yellow eyes hung on the angel, as if he expected, at any moment, for Raziel to eliminate them both.

“I’m unarmed,” Raziel said, obviously sensing Crowley’s doubt. He lifted his arms, spinning to show the demon that he was, in fact, hiding no weapons.

“Tsk,” Crowley made an uneasy noise, finally hiding his wings. “Spent enough time in _this one’s_ presence to know_ you are the weapon.” _

Raziel smiled genuinely, shrugging out of the deep navy sport coat he bore and draping it over one arm elegantly. “While this is technically true... I am not here to cause any trouble. Just to speak with Aziraphale. May I?”

He motioned to the back room, taking a tentative step forward. Crowley hissed, his fangs momentarily visible as he took a large step back. He didn’t calm, but seemed to resign himself, looking to Aziraphale for confirmation.

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Aziraphale said again, pity rising and reminding him that Crowley was still terribly disjointed from the exorcism, and was probably feeling immense discomfort at being in the presence of an angel who hadn’t spent six millennia learning how to ‘turn it down,’ for lack of better words.

“Although...” Aziraphale said as he motioned Raziel to follow into the more private back room. It wasn’t as if customers would interrupt, the door had been locked before Raziel entered, and remained so now. But they could sit, possibly share some tea, which might make Crowley feel less threatened.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale continued, first motioning with a hand, then reaching out to confront Raziel’s aura with his own. He didn’t use words, but the contact between them said everything he wished to—“could you please radiate a bit less, my companion... you understand.”

“Ah,” Raziel said with apologetic compassion, his divine radiance suddenly dying down to hover at a dull shimmer. He probably hadn’t meant to audibly sigh in relief, but Crowley did regardless, backing into the rear room and collapsing into the chair on the opposite side of the table, using it to separate himself from the intruding angel.

“Would you care for some tea, Raziel?” Aziraphale asked, taking the angel’s coat and hanging it on a very old, rickety coat rack by the door. He watched cautiously as Raziel sat opposite Crowley at the table, the demon physically pushing his chair back a bit and away from the angel in response.

“Have you got any coffee? Never really developed a taste for tea,” Raziel said, his eyes boring into the demon and making Aziraphale uncomfortable. Raziel clearly didn’t mean any harm, but he wasn’t exactly_ trying_ to be less threatening.

“I’m sure I could make it work,” Aziraphale replied quickly, wishing anxiously to buffer the escalating eye contact between his two guests. Haphazardly, he waved a hand at his kettle, willing it to suddenly believe it was a French press. Never mind if he ever turned it back; he could buy a new kettle. Right now, he needed to become a proverbial shield.

He did so by hurriedly miracling up a third chair (there had only ever been call for two), and sitting rather too close to Crowley on the opposite side of the table from Raziel.

“What was it... you...” Aziraphale started, trying to pry Raziel’s bafflingly gentle yet fiery gaze off of a squirming and uncomfortable Crowley.

“Right,” Raziel replied, finally looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale could feel Crowley trembling where his shoulder met his own, so he hurriedly reached under the table and grasped the demon’s wrist. 

“It has been brought to my attention that you have already been contacted by Him,” Raziel began, and Aziraphale could feel the color drain from his face as a shocked Crowley looked accusingly at him from his periphery, the glare burning “you didn’t tell me that!” into Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale straightened, squeezing Crowley’s wrist, unsure if he was doing it to reassure the demon or himself.

“Er, briefly, yes. And not... not directly,” he said, fidgeting under the demonic gaze he refused to acknowledge, and recalling poignantly the words spoken through the telly in Crowley’s flat that fateful night.

Raziel nodded, pointing suddenly at the French press on the counter.

“Ah, yes, help yourself. Cups are in the cupboard over... the...” he trailed off as Raziel stood, quietly helping himself to a cup of coffee. Aziraphale took the opportunity to finally look at Crowley, who was sickly pale and visibly nervous.

“It really is alright, my dear. I would know if he planned anything... sinister. Well... not _sinister_, he’s incapable. But... _divinely threatening. _ I would know. But if you want to leave...”

“And abandon you to your own Lord’s _mercccy?” _ Crowley hissed, his forked tongue flaring out. “Plusss run the risk of being perceived as a dog fleeing with his tail tucked? No thanksss,” he continued, his hissing getting worse. Aziraphale squeezed his wrist again, but couldn’t do anything more, as Raziel returned to his seat. 

“Nervous, are we?” he asked, sitting ramrod straight and sipping his coffee. Crowley practically growled.

“Raziel, please...” Aziraphale finally begged. “If you’re not here for my _divine punishment, _ could you at least_ try_ not to be so... so...”

“Inssssufferable,” Crowley finished for him.

Raziel smiled, his harsh expression melting to reveal a more empathetic one. “My apologies. It’s simply in my nature...”

“I should think that I’ve proven that angels can and often _should_ resist that nature,” Aziraphale snapped back, but pursed his lips nervously as he realized the gravity of what he’d said.

Raziel did not react poorly, however. He nodded, setting his coffee down delicately on the accompanying saucer with a _clink. _

“You’re absolutely right, Aziraphale. Truly, my apologies,” he said.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley stared at him, appalled. It certainly wasn’t the viewpoint many..._ any_ angels, save one, held in their arsenal of personal moral guidelines.

“Keeper of Secrets, remember,” Raziel said jovially, to which Aziraphale released a tight, forced laugh.

“That is, in fact, why I’m here,” Raziel continued. “If He hadn’t known about your... _Arrangement_ long ago, which I assure you He did, then it would have been revealed to him when you willingly entered into the spell cast by... what was her name...”

“Penny—er, Penelope,” Crowley piped in, his voice tapering off as his familiarity with the girl became apparent in his use of her name.

“Yes, Penelope Blackthorne. Thank you,” Raziel went on. “He wishes you to know that...”

Raziel paused, his eyes flitting to Crowley, who immediately stiffened.

“Perhaps... perhaps we ought to be discussing this in private,” Raziel said, his eyes narrowing.

“The subject matter pertains to him, thus he has every right to hear it. He is bound in the spell just as I am,” Aziraphale replied hurriedly.

“It’s just... I am bound by my title, you by yours. But he.. isn’t,” said Raziel, his aura spiking with the words.

Crowley winced, slamming his eyes shut. “You think I’m still talking to... Below?!” Crowley asked heatedly. “That I would have any interest in passing on _The Lord’s bloody Word _to them? To what end? They’ve already made clear their plans for me, and that absolutely _nothing_ I could do for them could _possibly_ spare me from that fate. So _why bother?!” _

Aziraphale felt his own pity rise, and he rubbed his hand back and forth on Crowley’s wrist. He balked, however, at what he was feeling from his angelic counterpart.

“Raziel. Your aura. Please.”

“Sorry,” replied Raziel quickly, this time genuinely, and his aura immediately subsided. “Right, then. _He_ wishes you to know that, while He was slightly disappointed in your actions to avert the apocalypse, He... understands. He doesn’t want this kind of thing spread around, can’t have the sides collapsing and befriending one another. It would mean chaos, and the order must be maintained, you understand. But He explained, in this one particular instance, that He was rendered quite speechless by the inexplicable bond between the two sides. He simply couldn’t define it to me. What was the word He used...”

Aziraphale felt as if his heart had leapt into his throat.

“In—ineffable?” he squeaked. He could practically feel the eye roll coming from Crowley.

Raziel smiled wide, pointing at him excitedly. Crowley twitched. “That was it. Ineffable. He went on to say that, while He does understand, you still must pay your due penance for your actions.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to go pale, his hand tightening on Crowley’s wrist unconsciously. To Aziraphale’s immense shock, Crowley twisted his wrist around and grabbed his hand tightly in comfort.

Aziraphale’s first thought was Falling. It had always hovered under his every thought—that he could be Felled for his dubious alliance with a demon, for his slightly treasonous deeds. It seemed harsh, given Aziraphale hadn’t done anything _truly_ unholy, but... the Lord worketh in mysterious ways.

He imagined the sensation... his divinity stripped away and leaving him hollow. His wings burning as they turned to pitch, his love and hope replaced with agonizing hatred and cruelty. Or... rather, loneliness and spite, as he’d come to associate with demons. _Demon. _

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed he had momentarily zoned out in terror until both Crowley and Raziel had, in tandem, shouted his name.

“Yes, what, sorry. What?” he asked, feeling lightheaded. He felt Crowley shake his hand a bit, realizing with some dread that he’d probably been gripping so hard he’d hurt the demon. With a heavy exhale, he eased up, but did not let go.

Raziel seemed to understand, and, in a motion that made Crowley jerk hard, reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s free hand, which had balled on the tabletop and was trembling slightly.

“Nothing quite so drastic, my friend. Don’t worry,” he said wisely, giving Aziraphale a very genuine smile. “In an effort to be more… _diplomatic_ about decisions moving forward, He left the task of determining your penance to the council, and they have decided. You will simply be given a multitude of tasks in the years to come; missions that, in their very nature, will reassure Heaven of your loyalty.”

This did not make Aziraphale feel any better. The phrasing made it sound like it would be things Aziraphale would dislike. He looked at Crowley, wondering immediately if he might be the target of any of these... ‘tasks.’

Obviously sensing Aziraphale’s trepidation, Raziel continued, leaning back in his chair, “Nothing will threaten your...” he paused, clearly unable to use the term ‘friend’ to refer to Crowley. “Nothing will threaten him. They will simply be Heaven’s work, just like you’ve done in the past. Do you accept?”

“Do I have a choice?” Aziraphale asked bitterly. He didn’t relish accepting, when he didn’t yet know what it would entail.

Raziel smiled, but his eyes were flat and emotionless. “Clearly, you do. You’ve chosen to do plenty recently which wasn’t specifically instructed.”

Aziraphale sensed the threat embedded in Raziel’s words, but did not gratify it by acknowledging it.

“Fine. I accept,” he replied curtly, feeling drained by the interaction already as he raised his hand to shake Raziel’s.

He could feel the binding of the agreement as his flesh met Raziel’s, their respective auras entwining together for a moment. Aziraphale could feel Raziel’s essence mixing with his own, finding the other angel’s confidence, calm, and shockingly, on some level, a hint of envy. Aziraphale would have felt some sort of advantage over his fellow angel, were it not for the undoubted amounts of love Raziel could feel from Aziraphale, aimed somewhere it decidedly shouldn’t be.

They separated, conveying through the collision of blue eyes their shared understanding and quiet accord to remain silent on what they had just learned about each other.

Raziel stood suddenly, which prompted Crowley to leap defensively to his feet. Aziraphale released his hand as he did, but was fairly certain Raziel saw it. Raziel stilled, holding his hands up in surrender before pointing to his coat where it hung on the rack.

“Just retrieving something from my coat. S’that alright?” he asked, his tone soft but slightly mocking.

Crowley pulled a face of embarrassment, averting his eyes to the floor and nodding bashfully.

From an inner breast pocket of his coat, Raziel pulled a golden-cream colored scroll, tied shut with a gold leaf ribbon. He returned to the table slowly, eyeing Crowley warily, before holding it out to Aziraphale.

“The first of seven,” he said as Aziraphale stood slowly, suspiciously, and took the scroll in hand. “Agreed upon by the council.”

Aziraphale went to untie the ribbon, but Raziel made a tutting noise. “Open it once I’ve gone. I may be the Keeper of Secrets, but I do not sit on the High Council. I’m merely your messenger.”

Aziraphale nodded, placing the scroll down on the table and regarding it like a bucket of worms.

“Well,” Raziel continued with a brief smile. “I believe that’s my cue to see myself out.”

“But... you’ve barely touched your coffee,” Aziraphale said respectfully, trying very hard to hide the air of ‘I don’t mean anything I’m saying, please get out,’ in his strung-thin voice.

Raziel smiled knowingly, leaned in, picked up the cup, and downed the rest of the coffee without even flinching at the temperature.

“Thank you for the coffee, Aziraphale,” he said, taking his coat from the rack and sliding elegantly back into it. He snapped his lapel down sharply, slimming the coat down before doing something that nearly made Aziraphale’s heart leap from his throat and splat down on the hardwood, still hammering.

“Crowley,” Raziel said kindly, holding out a hand to him.

Crowley looked down at the angel’s outstretched hand like he had just jutted a red hot iron poker at him. Raziel patiently held it aloft for as long as it took for Crowley to anxiously consider before extending his own mildly shaking hand.

He visibly stopped breathing as he shook the angel’s hand, but Raziel grinned genuinely, a bit of shock coloring his cheeks at the trust he’d just been offered by a demon that clearly disliked him.

“Ooooo... that feels painful,” Raziel offered gently as he pulled his hand back. “Maybe some sleep; good company. Should fix it right up.”

Aziraphale felt his own cheeks run hot as he smiled at Raziel’s brazen proclamation of what was obviously already happening.

Crowley, visibly unable to respond past a closed-up throat, simply nodded.

“I was thinking of exploring your lovely city before returning home. Anywhere in particular I should see?” he asked cheerily, miracling a rather dashing Panama hat into his hand and setting it atop his curly black hair. 

“Er...” Aziraphale stuttered, feeling a bit of whiplash from the entire situation. “Th—th’Ritz is nice. Wonderful cream cakes, and simply _divi_—er, very good wine.”

Raziel nodded, smiling a closed mouth grin. “Delightful. Evening, you two.”

Crowley and Aziraphale mumbled in unison, neither of them sure if they’d even formed words.

No sooner than the book shop’s door had clicked closed, the lock falling into place immediately, Aziraphale spun on a heel and headed for the scroll.

***

Crowley followed Aziraphale anxiously back to the table, not just seeing the rigid shoulders and hard lines of Aziraphale’s rising panic, but _feeling it_ spreading through his aura like blood in the water.

The feeling was familiar; reminiscent of being blasted in the face with a fire brigade hose.  
Aziraphale sighed, waving a hand to summon his golden reading glasses onto the tip of his nose and pulling the ribbon loose.

With hands that had begun to tremble a bit, the angel slowly pulled the scroll open. Crowley died to comfort him, rest a hand on his shoulder, _something. _ But his curiosity got the better of him, so he simply moved in to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, eyes cast down at the shimmering black script.

“I see they’ve not upgraded their methods of communication in a few hundred years,” he grumbled before either of them began reading.

“I think I’d prefer a nice quiet letter to a car radio that yells at me,” Aziraphale said with a crooked grin and a glance tossed Crowley’s way.

“Touché,” replied Crowley with an equally demure smile. 

He refocused on the obnoxiously neat scripture, and Crowley did the same, grinding his teeth as he did.

_To the Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Principality on Earth, Aziraphael.  
In accordance with the request of the High Council of Angels, dictated forthwith by Metatron, speaker and voices of God, thou art hereby tasked with thy first trial. _

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned, disgusted. “For the love of... well... they could at least learn some modern diction. The potpourri in their words is giving me a headache.”

Aziraphale snickered. “On that, we agree.”

_Liberality be its name. Thou hast in thy possession a collection of Bibles. Thou art an angel. Thou hast no need of such things. _

Crowley couldn’t help but snort. He could practically hear the condescending tone.

Aziraphale glared at him, his narrowing eyelids screaming ‘it’s not the least bit funny, Crowley, will you hush so I can read?’

Crowley let one side of his lips curl up mischievously, as if to say ‘it is, a bit, yeah.’

Aziraphale slapped him on the arm and gestured heatedly back at the letter.

_This trial shall henceforth be considered completed when you have distributed these Bibles to... _

Crowley’s heart collided with his heels, and if it could have shouted ‘move!’ and gone past them, it would have. He felt the blood drain from his face, probably filling the cavity in his chest that his decorative heart had recently vacated.

_...when you have distributed these Bibles to world-weary souls in need. To those who have strayed, or to those seeking answers, seeking truth, seeking the grace of God._  
_At the behest of the council, this trial is not to have a deadline. But know this, Principality; should you drag your feet on this matter, it shall be known, and your tasks shall be revisited by the council._  
_With regards,_  
_Metatron. _

Crowley sucked in an apprehensive breath that devolved to a hiss in his teeth, loathe to look up at the angel. He could already feel the divine fury spreading out through the bookshop and beyond.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Aziraphale released the scroll, allowing it to snap back to its cylindrical state before dropping it to the table with abandon and ripping his glasses off.

“Ssssorry, angel. That’s... that’s rough...”

“Rough! _Rough!? _ You do know how long I’ve had some of those? They were the only things I managed to smuggle out of the fire of London, some of them... I... _ooooooo...” _

The angel seethed, turning around and stomping through the back room. Crowley didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone_ angrily_ pour a glass of wine, but Aziraphale managed with brilliant flair; tipping the bottle so violently that the liquid fell down one side of the glass, zoomed across the dip, and fled out the other side to splat on the counter. The angel didn’t care. He simply slammed the bottle to the counter and downed what had managed to stay in the glass.  
  
Crowley stifled his giggle. “Angel, I could...”

Aziraphale pointed hurriedly down at the scroll. “There’s a second page, and I’m fairly certain I know what it says.”

Crowley picked up the scroll, feeling a certain nauseous unease at its divinity in his hands, and pulled the second piece from beneath it. He unrolled it, unable to stop the laughter this time.

_No, the demon cannot buy them and give them back. _

That was it. That’s all it said. On an entire roll of parchment.

“_Must you_ laugh, this is hardly funny to me,” Aziraphale said, but there was something in it that seemed to be holding back a fond bit of joy.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley said, wrangling in his laughter but missing a few tendrils. It kept bubbling back up as he tried to speak.

“I just...” a single breath of laughter through his nose, “I think it’s so amusing that...” another, “they went through the trouble of writing this horribly contrived and prissy letter, and then...”

He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling his eyes watering with the effort of stalling his giggles. It really wasn’t that funny, but the way Aziraphale kept getting angrier the more Crowley laughed... like a child who has fallen from his bicycle directly into a pile of dog shit and can’t understand why his parents keep laughing.

“And then just... they haven’t even addressed the fact that you’re friends with me, but they care enough to make my not buying them a condition of your... oh, it’s just _funny, _ Aziraphale!”

The look on Aziraphale’s face was still very upset, but a creeping fondness, likely for Crowley’s unyielding laughter, came spilling across his features until finally, _finally, _ he cracked a tentative tight-lipped grin.

“Yes, I... I suppose it is a bit absurd,” he admitted, his grin splitting to a maddeningly genuine smile. Something in Crowley leapt at the fact that he’d been able to make Aziraphale smile through this, even if he himself wasn’t aware that it had been an objective.

With this subconscious drive suddenly barreling through his veins like a bull in a china shop, Crowley continued, approaching the angel.

“Well... let’s look at the positives,” he said, shifting his weight on his heels. “First... at least it’s only the Bibles. I mean... if they were looking to rid you of any greed or covetousness, they could have required you to get rid of _all_ the books...”

A very unexpected warmth spread through Crowley’s chest as Aziraphale’s hard lines softened; his shoulders relaxed, his brows going slack. 

“Well, I... I suppose that’s true...” the angel said in a hushed but somewhat thankful tone.

“And another thing; they started by naming the task; Liberality. A Heavenly Virtue. And Raziel said there would be seven. So it’s not like they’ll be testing you for the next few eons. It’ll only be until you’ve completed their seven requests.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but the relief that had washed over him suddenly went stale. He groaned, setting his wine glass down and dragging his hands over his face.

“But... if this is how it starts... _oh, they can be so vindictive sometimes, _ they know me, they know what I enjoy about Earth. They... they shall probably get an indecent enjoyment out of torturing me in these tiny, itching ways. Taking away little things that make life worth it, reverting me back to that shell of a soldier they sent to the Eastern Gate—that insufferably loyal creature who was made to feel terrible guilt over choosing morality over duty. Who had a crisis over giving away the sword, even though he _knew_ it was right, _knew_ that the humans needed it. I just wanted to do _the right thing. _ How am I supposed to survive down here, without... all this growth, all this progress I’ve made? It’s not indulgence, it’s not _sin. _ I’m trying to understand humanity,_ be like them. _ How can I understand if I... I...”

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever seen Aziraphale panic before, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so heartbreaking, so disheartening.

“Whoa, _whoa_,” Crowley begged, firmly grasping Aziraphale’s shoulders. He squared up with him, his hands gripping hard to steady his frightfully distressed angel.

“Stop. Take a deep breath. We don’t even know what the other tasks will be yet. If anything, by requesting you get rid of only a _few_ books rather than _all_... that means they may show a modicum of restraint, eh?”

Complementing Heaven physically pained Crowley’s tongue, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make, if it helped Aziraphale.

The angel looked reassured for a fraction of a second—long enough for his sky blue eyes to hold Crowley’s for a soul-crushing moment. Then they fell again.

“No. _No, _ Crowley. You may not remember, but I do. They’re just starting small. This just means it’ll be harder at the end, it’ll... _hurt the most_ when I’ve finished them all.”

Hopelessness was not a feeling Crowley relished in Aziraphale, not at all. Hell was hopeless, _demons_ were hopeless. But the world could tremble when an angel lost hope.

_“Angel!” _ he whispered, waiting to go on until Aziraphale looked up at him, his eyes swimming with just a hint of tears. “Look… it’ll be tough, I know it will. That would be like someone asking me to be rid of _the Bentley_. But… and I’m not trying to frighten you here… consider; this is what the council decided to _compromise_ on. That means half of them wanted something _worse_. All things considered, I think… I think this might just be a blessing.”

He had to pause to choke on the words, but he went on before Aziraphale could interrupt. 

“And those aren’t the only copies of those books. It’s a big bloody world, there are more out the—”

“But not of the—“ Aziraphale raised his voice to interrupt, and Crowley just knew he was about to launch into some reasoning; ‘not this one specific one, it’s one of a kind, it’s got _such and such_ errors, only _blah-blah_ amount printed, and the others were destroyed in the _whatever.’ _

“So you’ll lose one or two,” Crowley spoke up, raising his voice but tightening his grip on the angel’s shoulders in reassurance. “The letter doesn’t say you can’t _replace them! _ Just that you ‘have no need for such things,’ whatever the bloody Heaven that means. And you love hunting those books down, it’s practically Pavlovian for you, tracking down a rare find. And… shit, I’ll help you, if you like. It’ll be… _fun_… or whatever.”

Aziraphale stilled, his eyes suddenly stricken as he looked at Crowley with such adoration that Crowley was reminded how _undemonic_ he’d just been acting, and he stepped away, pulling his hands back and averting his eyes back to the floor.

“Oh, oh you would really do that for me, Crowley? Help me look for new ones?” the angel asked, stepping forward into the space Crowley’s retreat had created.

Crowley shrugged, aiming for a modicum of disinterest but feeling more like he’d achieved _bashful child. _ “Sure. Why not.”

Before he knew what was happening, Crowley was pulled into a tight angelic hug, and he promptly went to war with himself. Half of him wanted to sneer, pull away, make a disgusted sound, and brush the angel off. It was what was expected of him, it was what he’d been doing to throw off suspicion for 6000 years. But… the other half…

The other half was _high_ on the angel’s appreciation, his closeness, the fact that he was no longer panicking but_ happy. _ And the fact that he’d been the one to_ make him happy_… better than any drug, smoother than any wine.

So, Crowley compromised with himself, relaxing in the angel’s embrace and raising an awkward hand to pat him twice on the back.


	16. Missing scene: Noah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to let this little tidbit from the last chapter fly under the radar:  
_"Crowley had scheduled a masseuse to come by his flat, but ended up cancelling it twice. The third try, he refused to talk about, but assured Aziraphale he hadn’t hurt the young lad."_  
But then I was like... me? Pass up a smut opportunity? Nah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Explicit  
Explicit sexual content, in the context of a casual one-night-stand. If not your thing, skip. Chapter has no bearing on the story as a whole, I was just feeling wildly self-indulgent.

“Look, I have to warn you, I… I have a… I’ve been… it’s difficult to…” Crowley stuttered, fishing in his nervous brain for the right words to accurately warn this poor lad about what he was getting into. 

Of course he’d had massages before. They were, among such other things as vintage cars and rock music, an indulgence that the humans had concocted which Crowley was immeasurably grateful for. But his skin hadn’t felt like a sack of needles, all pointed inward, at the time. 

He’d thought this would help. Exposure therapy, or whatever. 

But, as the young man unfolded his table in Crowley’s living room, he was starting to see just how bad an idea this had been.

Even after 6000 years, Crowley had only ever _personally_ killed a single human being. And it had been after the last exorcism. Sure, his actions had led to deaths more times than he cared to count. And most of the time, he was glad to take credit for those deaths, even if it made his stomach turn, because it got Hell off his back. 

But that one… that singular act still weighed on his mind to this day. He hadn’t meant to, barely recalled doing it. He’d been in a mindless, torment-filled fervor at the time, but it haunted him—the crack of the man’s spine as they collided, the sound of the air leaving his lungs. 

This was another of his failings as a demon. Death made him nauseous. 

And now, he’d apparently decided to set himself up for failure. Again.

“It’s fine if you’re nervous,” the man said, pulling a few things from a long duffle bag and setting them on the massage table; silken towel, a bottle of oil. “Loads of people are. Bit weird, at first, this. But it’s all about you—your comfort level.”

Crowley was pacing, sneering at his plants and willing them not to get any wise ideas from his supposed weakness. 

“I don’t have a comfort level,” he snapped, pressing his thumb and middle fingers into opposite temples, just above the glasses, and covering his face. _Why, why, WHY did I think this was a good idea? One false move, one little pain, and I’ll probably tear the poor lad in half. _ “My comfort level is ‘bed’,” he mumbled.

“Well… we can do it in there. If you like.”

Crowley knew that tone. He’d know that tone if he hadn’t any _ears. _ It was the tone of a human who has been _tempted. _

His head shot up, his hand falling to slap to his thigh, as he really studied the man for the first time.

He was probably no older than twenty-eight, but maintained in his olive skin and wide, open eyes a youthful glow and openness that beckoned those close into relaxation. Probably a perk, in his line of work.

He was _exceedingly handsome_, his dark hair coifed magnificently into defying gravity. He wasn’t slender by any means, but built; his broad shoulders and exposed, muscled forearms belying a hidden strength. He had high, carved cheekbones, and deep, nearly-black brown eyes that were staring _incredibly intently_ right back at Crowley.

_Shit. How long have I been staring? Say something! Something to break the tension, something witty! _

“Hm. _That_ kinda massage, is it?”

_Well… you tried. _

The lad grinned, and _someone help me_, it was rather dashing. “It can be.”

_Oh fuck. _

“Charge extra for that, do you?” Crowley barked, feeling suddenly very vulnerable and opting to cross his arms over his chest tightly.

The man smiled again, letting out a breathy chuckle. “No, sir. Let’s say… _a perk_ I offer to the customers I _really like.” _

_Oh Go—someone. When did today escalate from strange to dime-store porno? _

Crowley stared back at him just as intently, considering, before sniffing dismissively and looking away. It was tempting… perhaps a little extra _pleasure_ would help him.

“S’not a good idea,” he finally mumbled down at his crossed arms. “But it’s nice to know you _really like me_, after having known me for a whole…” he uncrossed his arms, looking down at his ridiculously overpriced watch, “eight minutes.”

The man shrugged, not at all offended by the rejection. “Suit yourself. Really though, where would you like to do this? We can use the table, or the bed, if that’s where you’re comfortable. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Table’s fine,” Crowley replied, eyeing the maroon silk drape on the table and valiantly fighting off a plethora of naughty thoughts. The man’s exposed arms definitely weren’t helping.

“Sounds good. Do you mind if I play some music? Usually helps with the atmosphere.”

Crowley nodded as the man pulled a small stereo from his duffle bag. “Sure, yeah,” he said, watching closely as the man set it on the floor and pressed ‘play.’ A low hum of ambient melodies immediately spilled from it, rich and relaxing. “That’s fine. What, er… what was your name again?”

“Noah, sir.”

Crowley couldn’t help the snorted chuckle, and Noah’s brows pinched together in questioning.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively. “I, er… _knew somebody_ with that name, once. And don’t call me sir. Anthony is fine.”

“Of course, _Anthony.” _

_Oh bloody fucking Heaven. _ The drawl on his name almost made him shudder.

“Now, since you’ve already paid, and tipped very well, might I add, we don’t have to worry about any of that. It’s easiest with as little clothing as possible, but again—to your comfort level… Anthony,” Noah said, and it sounded like he added the name in an attempt to remind him of his earlier advance.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow suggestively, dropping his arms to his sides.

As he did, a phantom pain rocketed from both shoulders and into his spine, and he winced, throwing his head back, gasping as the sting of it brought tears to his eyes.

Noah dropped all pretense of flirting, stepping forward with a hand out and a hurried “are you alright?”

“Fine, yeah,” Crowley whined, waiting for the fire in his nerves to die down. “S’actually… what I was trying to warn you about earlier. I, er… I’ve been having some… trouble, recently. An…_ injury_, causing me some pain. And I wanted to… apologize… in advance… if I do something… rash, in response.”

“I will try _very hard_ not to hurt you, sir—er, Anthony. Is it localized anywhere, should I avoid anything?” Noah asked, a hand still held out toward him in offering.

“No, it’s everywhere,” Crowley said with a sigh as the flare-up finally ebbed. He shook out his arms, rolling his shoulders and feeling only minimal pain. “But only sometimes. I’ll… I’ll let you know.”

“Please do. I certainly don’t want to hurt you,” Noah said with a warm, genuine smile. “Now, I’m going to turn my back, you undress to whatever you’re comfortable in, and lie down, face down on the table. 

Crowley did, electing to undress to his pants the human way, as Noah would probably find it odd if it only took him half a second to do so. He left the boxer briefs on, however, because anything less, and he’d be tempted to _make the best of it. _

He alerted Noah that he was ready, and the young man returned, throwing another silk drape over Crowley’s rear.

“Pants and sunglasses kinda guy, huh?” Noah asked from somewhere behind him.

“Comfort level,” Crowley barked in response, to which the young man only giggled.

He could hear the bottle cap on the oil popping open, and his serpentine sense of smell immediately picked up peppermint and vanilla. Horrified, Crowley found himself thinking of Aziraphale for some reason, and he pushed the thoughts away as quickly as they’d popped up.

“Any problem areas, places you’d like me to focus on?” Noah asked, the sound of the oil being rubbed into his hands making Crowley’s mind immediately go somewhere inappropriate.

_Yeah, I’ll tell you where you can focu—no! No! Stop that. It’s a bad idea. No! _

He cleared his throat, hoping his cheeky thought wouldn’t worm its way into his voice. “Not really, no. Just… just hoping it’ll help with the… the pain… issues.”

“Alright. Let me know immediately if I cause any pain.”

Crowley nodded into the ridiculous little donut his face was buried in.

“I’m going to go ahead and start. You just relax.”

If only telling him to relax had ever worked… 

_Oh sweet baby Jesus…_

Noah’s hands were damn near _perfect_ as they started at the base of his neck and pressed downward, on either side of his spine. He used flat palms at first, working out the oil over Crowley’s skin, but when he brushed over where his wings would be, he tensed hard, expecting pain and suffering a minor flashback of Lucifer’s attack.

“Whoa, did I hurt you?” Noah asked in a whisper, his hands stilling.

“No, I just… I thought it would. Another old injury,” he said, glad that it wasn’t entirely a lie. 

“Alright then,” Noah said, beginning to move his hands again. “Just try not to tense up. That can do more harm than good.”

Crowley finally allowed himself to relax, simply enjoying the steadily growing pressure against his muscles.

“You are carrying _a lot of tension,” _ Noah said after a bit of work, pressing a few knuckles into Crowley’s lower back. “What do you do for a living?”

Crowley had to regroup before answering, as the knuckles in his lower back went _just a hint_ lower.

“Er… it’s, erm… classified. But I’m recently retired,” he said, prompting a chuckle.

“You MI6? KGB?” Noah asked with mirth in his voice, his hands finally working back north and making Crowley’s blush subside. 

“Something like that,” Crowley replied with a grin, unable to stop a whine as Noah worked at his extremely sore shoulder blades.

“Well, at any rate…” Noah began, following the line of the scapulars all the way up to Crowley’s neck. Crowley tried very hard not to moan. “You spend way too much time tensed up. I can tell. Feel this?”

A steady pressure, probably a thumb and pointer finger, built on either side of Crowley’s neck, and it briefly caused stars in his vision.

“Yep,” he said shortly, and the pressure relented, only to be replaced with a _wonderful_ stroking up and down his neck and into his hair.

“I can feel the damage it’s done in your muscles,” Noah went on, but Crowley was quickly zoning out away from the man’s voice. “You need to find a way to relax, every day. Take short breaks, do yoga or something…”

Crowley laughed. _Yes, a break from being a demon. I’ll try that, thanks. _

“I’d be happy to come by more often…” Noah said, and Crowley couldn’t gauge his intentions by his tone—whether it was money or _something else. _

“Hmmm, I’m sure you would,” Crowley grumbled into the pillow.

Noah chuckled, and the sound of it made Crowley’s fingertips tingle.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that it would benefit you, in the long run.”

_The long run. So… eternity, then? _

Before Crowley could snap back with something witty, yet another spike of pain fired through him, this one starting in his right leg.

He yelped, pushing up and off the table, but when his weight came down on his legs, they both buckled, sending him with a hard _thud_ to his knees on the floor. He gripped his thigh so tightly, in an effort to assuage the pain, that his fingernails began to dig in and leave crescent-moon shapes in the skin.

“Anthony! Are you alright?!” Noah gasped, stepping around the table to hurriedly kneel next to him.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fi—” 

Before he could even finish the lie, the fire shot up into his spine, punching the breath from his lungs and making him fall onto all-fours. This one was quite a bit worse than the last, making his heart hammer in his chest needlessly and his lungs work overtime to bring him panting breaths.

“I think you need a hospital…” Noah said, shifting to rise to his feet, presumably to make the call.

Crowley’s hand flew out and grabbed the man’s wrist harshly, keeping him down on his knees next to him.

“No, you can’t. I mean… I can’t. I can’t go,” Crowley grumbled through the pain, thankfully feeling it start to recede.

“Part of the whole ‘classified job’ thing?” Noah asked as he stilled.

Crowley laughed through the pain, his grip on Noah’s wrist loosening. “Yeah. I’ll be alright, just… give me a second.”

From his periphery, he saw the young lad nod, and raise a hand to rest on Crowley’s shoulder in comfort. He flinched, expecting the touch to trigger more of the pain, but it didn’t.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Noah asked kindly, rubbing his hand across Crowley’s back. That in itself _did_ help.

“No, it’s… it’s wearing off, I’ll be fine. Can you just…”

He held out his hand to ask to be helped to his feet, but as he turned his head to look at Noah, the man recoiled, his eyes going wide.

Crowley knew that look, too.

“Oh, shit!” he yelped, looking around frantically and finding that his sunglasses had fallen to the floor when he collapsed.

He pulled away from Noah, falling back onto his bum and slamming against the table leg as he threw both hands up to cover his naked eyes.

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, recalling the thousands of times his eyes had led to beatings, verbal assaults, and on a few rare occasions, discorporations.

“Are… are those _real?” _ Noah asked, that tell-tale hint of fear in his voice. Or it sounded like fear. 

Crowley kept his hands covering his eyes as he spoke mutely into his palms, the pain in his back and leg all but forgotten.

“Yeah,” he mumbled into his palms, waiting for the young man to take off running. “S’a… birth… defect.”

He waited, holding his breath, for the sound of a fleeing and terrified human. But no such sound came.

Only gentle hands, pulling his own away from his face.

Noah’s eyes were sympathetic and kind as he looked on Crowley’s unveiled ones. “Why are you sorry? You can’t help how you were born. And… they’re beautiful. In kind of a… an eerie way, if it’s alright to say?” he said, rocking from his knees to sit in front of Crowley.

Shocked beyond words, Crowley simply nodded, mouthing ‘yeah.’

Noah smiled, but it died rather quickly, morphing into what appeared to be intense fascination. One hand came forward to cup Crowley’s cheek extremely tenderly, and he studied his eyes even more closely.

_“God, they are! They’re so beautiful. _ They’re like sunflowers…”

Noah probably hadn’t noticed, but Crowley definitely did—he had leaned forward in his quest to analyze Crowley’s eyes more closely, and now they were only inches apart. His hands still smelled of peppermint, and this close, it was… intoxicating.

Noah suddenly noticed how close he’d gotten, judging by the way he looked at his own hand, pressed against Crowley’s cheek, and yanked it back.

“Sorry. Unprofessional,” he muttered, leaning back and getting quickly to his feet. He offered a hand, and Crowley took it, cataloguing exactly how strong it was as he allowed himself to be pulled up.

This time it was Crowley who held fast, when Noah went to pull his hand back, caressing it with his thumb. Noah’s breathing quickened as he looked down desperately at their joined hands.

It was new, this thing where humans accepted abnormalities like his eyes, even dared to admire them. Humanity had an awful habit of fearing what they didn’t understand, and turning violent. But this… recently… humans coming to embrace the different, the strange, _the other_. It felt like a drug, like a shot of rum—warm and comforting. _Being seen, being accepted. _

Crowley was slightly shocked at the command in his own voice when he dared to speak, “tell me again.”

Noah dragged his eyes up to meet Crowley’s, slowly, _intentionally_ letting his gaze linger on his exposed hip bones, abs, nipples, and finally… eyes.

“They’re stunning, Anthony. Like 24-carat gold, like looking directly into the sun. Mum always told me not to look directly at the sun, but…” he mused, daring to look a little coy.

Little did he know, Crowley had already rocketed past coy.

“Don’t listen to her,” he breathed, rushing forward and slamming his lips into Noah’s, pressing his nearly-naked body fully against him as he wrapped a hand around his neck to dig into the hair at the base of his skull.

Noah let out a surprised whimper into Crowley’s mouth, but almost immediately relented, surging forward to meet him, wrapping those _perfect hands_ around him and splaying them out across bare back to pull him tight against him.

As a rule, Crowley didn’t kiss, if he could avoid it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it; in fact he did, very much. But he had seen _Pretty Woman_, seen Julia Roberts declare that kissing on the mouth was ‘too personal.’ He rather liked that idea. Kisses were reserved for permanence, for _connections_, not hook-ups. Kissing was for lo—

_No, can’t go there. I’m incapable, remember. _

But being _seen_, being _admired_, being told he was beautiful, monstrous eyes and all… it had made him want to taste those words right out of the young man’s mouth, find their truth. 

And Noah didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, his tongue sliding across Crowley’s lower lip extremely slowly, just like his hands, working up Crowley’s spine to curl against his shoulders.

Crowley shuddered at the contact, pulling away from the kiss and suddenly feeling his extreme disadvantage. He was in his pants, pressed up against a fully clothed man.

He snaked his hands between them, keeping his eyes focused on his own fingers as he tentatively went for the buttons on Noah’s shirt.

“Is this… alright?” he asked, popping _one… two… three _buttons loose to no objections.

“More than,” Noah grumbled, his voice low with desire as Crowley paused to slide two fingers into the shirt, allowing the pads of his fingertips to glide across heated skin to a very responsive nipple.

Noah shivered, and Crowley was absently aware of one of his hands dropping from his back. The ‘absently aware’ became ‘acutely aware’, when that same hand suddenly pressed against the front of Crowley’s pants, the fingers curling against him as he grew hard under the touch.

Crowley couldn’t help but follow the contact, his hips canting in to follow it as he returned to unbuttoning the shirt. He closed his eyes for a long moment, blindly fumbling for the last of the buttons. He licked his lips, keeping his eyes closed and sliding his hands beneath the shirt to push it up past his shoulders and down his arms. 

Crowley nearly yelped as he felt a hot, slick tongue against his neck, but it devolved to a frankly needy groan as he angled his head back, and Noah followed the column of his throat all the way to his jaw.

He accompanied it by wrapping his hand as tightly around Crowley’s now fully-hard length as the pants would allow, and _pulling. _

Overcome by sudden _need_, Crowley growled, placing a hand on Noah’s rock-hard sternum and shoving him back.

“Which are you?” he asked, vaguely aware that he needed to be more specific, but Noah clearly understood.

“I can do either,” he said, licking his lips as he let his eyes wander back down Crowley’s now thoroughly debauched body, pausing to admire his straining pants.

“Good,” Crowley barked, surging forward, hooking a finger in Noah’s belt, and spinning so that he could walk himself backward to the couch. He dropped onto it, sliding sideways to lie on his back, and pulling Noah by the belt to kneel between his legs.

“You’re getting oil all over your nice leather couch,” Noah said, grabbing Crowley’s finger in his belt and guiding it to unfasten it.

Towering as Noah was over Crowley, he felt a need to even the playing field. In an eager hurry, Crowley whipped the belt from the loops, tossing it to the floor and going back for the button and zipper. Just as he reached for the elastic of Noah’s pants, however, the young man grabbed both his wrists, pinning them to the couch at Crowley’s sides and leaning in over his abdomen.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted, leaning down and licking Crowley’s left hip, just above his pants. The sensation fired through every nerve in his lower body, and he felt his cock jerk at the closeness.

“Haven’t you ever played tennis before?” Noah asked, his hands keeping Crowley’s arms pinned as he followed the elastic back to the center, his open lips suddenly mouthing at the head of Crowley’s cock through his pants.

Crowley squirmed, the contact both perfect and _not enough_, through the fabric.

“Back and forth, back and forth,” Noah breathed against his cock, closing his lips on his length once more and working his way down until he was mouthing at his too-sensitive bollocks.

Crowley’s hips bucked against his will, and Noah laughed triumphantly.

“Bit of a one-sided game so far, if you ask me,” Crowley managed to squeak out as Noah’s hands released his wrists. 

“Well… you _are_ the client,” Noah said, and suddenly his fingers were dragging Crowley’s pants down to let his cock spring free. Crowley spared a look down at the young man’s face, but it only fueled his desire more, the way Noah’s eyes greedily took in the sight of him, exposed and leaking already.

“Just as beautiful as the rest of you,” he said, sensually licking his own hand, palm to fingertips, and taking Crowley in hand at the base.

Crowley let his head fall back onto the couch, finally releasing an unbridled moan as Noah’s hand_ pulled_ to the tip, then pushed back down. As he did though, he lowered his head, pursing his lips against the tip and pressing his tongue to the slit.

Crowley _keened_, gripping handfuls of the soft leather beneath him as Noah’s hand continued to move, torturously slowly. He could feel his legs beginning to shake on either side of Noah’s head, but he was powerless to stop it as, with one fluid motion, Noah removed his hand and took Crowley in, all the way to his throat.

The young man gagged slightly, but it only made his throat tighten around Crowley’s sensitive cock, and he cried out, both hands flying to his own hair to grip it hard.

Noah began moving his mouth, and Crowley almost couldn’t handle it. It had been a while since he’d chosen someone man-shaped, and _damn_ did he realize how much he’d needed this.

And Noah was _so good, _ working his tongue along the underside with every drag of his mouth, and bringing Crowley dangerously close to the edge.

“Uhn, _shit_, Noah, you gotta stop, I’m gunna come…” he whimpered, his hips bucking slightly to emphasize the statement.

Noah pulled up extremely slowly, sucking at the tip before pulling off with an obscene _pop_ that almost sent Crowley over the edge.

Noah stood quickly, and Crowley was helpless to do anything but hold still and try to cool the fire in his cock. 

Noah leaned over to the table, grabbing the bottle of oil before turning back around and pushing both his trousers and pants to the floor.

“Fuck…” Crowley groaned, admiring the young man’s impressive length.

“Too much for you?” he asked with a cocky grin, returning to the couch and spreading Crowley’s legs so that he could return to kneeling between them.

“Nope,” Crowley snapped back, reaching up with both hands and dragging his fingers over Noah’s nipples.

The young man jerked, his hand fumbling with the cap on the oil. He turned it over, thoroughly coating his pointer and middle fingers. He went to put it down on the floor, but Crowley snatched it with a mischievous grin.

“Ball’s in my court now,” he said, raising an eyebrow before pouring some in his right palm. _“Back and forth, back and forth,” _ he mocked, and Noah smiled wickedly.

Noah leaned in, propping himself with one arm over Crowley’s shoulder and dragging his oil-slicked hand down Crowley’s length, over his balls, and finally, to his tight entrance.

Simultaneously, Crowley tossed the bottle away, and lowered his oil-drenched palm, enveloping Noah’s thick cock and giving a hearty tug.

Noah had to pause before continuing, closing his eyes and licking his lips as he enjoyed Crowley’s languid pulls. He came back to himself rather quickly, however, and Crowley whined as he felt a single finger press in.

They moved in tandem, Crowley giving him long, luxurious pulls as he worked up to two, three, _four_ fingers.

Crowley decided to indulge his own wicked side, squeezing tighter on Noah’s cock and picking up the pace. Noah whimpered, losing his rhythm and stilling his fingers inside Crowley.

“Cheater,” Noah said with a smile, opening his eyes and meeting Crowley’s. 

Crowley grinned, biting his lip suggestively and raising an eyebrow.

Noah returned the grin, leaning in as if for a kiss, but pausing inches from Crowley’s face, his eyes clearly admiring Crowley’s again.

“They’re even more gorgeous with desire in them,” he said, forgoing the kiss to lean in farther and bite down on Crowley’s shoulder, where it met his neck.

Crowley hissed in a breath, arching up toward Noah as the pain of it burned through his veins and turned into extremely focused pleasure.

It was apparently all Noah could take, because he growled, removing his fingers, pushing back, and grabbing Crowley under each knee, lining him up. He paused, though, caressing Crowley’s thighs with his perfectly nimble thumbs.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

This, too, was new; this quiet questioning, this quest for real, spoken consent. Or maybe it wasn’t. Crowley wasn’t sure if this was because times were changing, people were more thoughtful about it, or if Crowley had just never had considerate partners. Given that the majority of them had been under orders from Hell, and those people weren’t typically the most moral... it was probably a decent bit of both.

But now... now he was free of Hell. Now he would only ever have partners he’d chosen.

And the fact that this lovely, handsome lad, in the heat of the moment and overwhelmed with desire... took a moment to pause, to _make sure_. It made something hungry in Crowley come to life, something downright predatory. He’d never seen a human _resist temptation_ solely to ensure _his comfort_. Generally, they were selfish, animalistic creatures, at least where _this_ was concerned. They didn’t want to ask that question, because they were afraid of the answer.

Crowley gave Noah his best wicked grin, slanted with sensuality, and sat up to meet him where he knelt between Crowley’s legs.

“Well aren’t you adorable,” he drawled, charging his words with enough sexuality to melt a diamond. Looping a hand behind Noah’s neck and caressing through his hair, Crowley ducked in, tracing his tongue from the center of Noah’s sternum all the way up to his ear, which he briefly took into his teeth. He released it after the audible groan the action produced, and he released a hot breath against his ear.

“If I were going to say no, I would have done it a few fingers ago,” he said, sensually coy.

Noah released a kind of growled giggle, turning his head in and delivering another light bite to Crowley’s shoulder, making him shudder.

“Jest checking,” Noah murmured against the sensitive, bitten flesh beneath his lips.

Crowley tightened his fist in Noah’s hair, beginning to pull it back. Noah whimpered as Crowley placed his lips against his throat and spoke.

“That’s very kind of you. Now _fuck me.” _

Punctuating the statement, Crowley leaned back to lie on the couch, planting his heels in the cushions on either side of Noah, and angling his hips up in beckoning.

Noah bit his lip, taking himself in hand, and lining up.

Crowley slammed his eyes shut, giving Noah a few extraneous noises, a few moaned ‘ooooo’s as he slowly pushed inside. He was a considerate lover, taking Crowley’s cock in hand before he’d even sunk all the way in, easing the initial shock of his size with a few leisurely strokes.

Crowley felt the weight shift on the couch cushions as Noah leaned down when he finally bottomed out, bracing one hand to the right of Crowley’s neck and continuing to stroke him lazily with the other.

He hadn’t begun moving yet, however, and Crowley was about to complain when Noah spoke up.

“Let me see them, lovely,” he said, his voice husky with passion.

Crowley opened his eyes, meeting Noah’s deep brown ones. It was apparently like a shot of dopamine to the young man, who smiled genuinely, beginning to grind his hips.

Crowley arched his back again, this time genuinely, and hissed in a breath as the drag of his well-slicked cock sent a shock of pleasure up his spine, completely drowning out the earlier pains.

It had been a while since Crowley had done this, especially with someone man-shaped, and he feared it was showing, with the way his climax quickly approached. Part of him knew he should shove Noah’s hand away from his cock, halt his absolutely _intoxicating_ strokes, but... he wanted the pleasure so badly; his experience of his corporeal body had been nothing but pain and anguish since the exorcism. Noah’s careful attentions, his delicious thrusts... they were like novocain, each one driving him further into wonderfully numbing ecstasy.

He could feel it—within seconds, he would peak.

“Noah, _please... I’m gonna come...please don’t stop...” _ he begged, rocking his hips as best he could to meet him as his abdominal muscles spasmed.

“Oh... you mean... like this?” Noah gave him one more perfect thrust before abruptly pulling out and pulling away, leaving Crowley on a plateau of bliss, but not quite reaching absolution.

His body screamed at the loss, and he felt himself barely coming, just enough to make him see stars, but not releasing the tension, the maintained heat and pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, Noah, you _arsehole, please... please keep going, come on...” _ he begged, aware of the pathetic desperation in his voice and not caring to curb it. His hips bucked again against his will, seeking out that beautiful pressure that he needed.

“Patience, lovely, it’s a virtue,” Noah grumbled, and Crowley looked down to gaze at him, and the sight made him spasm again.

He was gorgeous; debauched and panting hard, stroking himself lazily as he scoured Crowley’s untamed and twitching body with hungry eyes.

“Fuck virtue,” Crowley growled, attempting to sit up and reach for Noah’s cock. Perhaps if he could make the lad lose control, he’d return to him, fuck him senseless like he wanted.

“Ah, ah!” Noah tutted in scolding, shoving Crowley’s hand away. “I am meant to be giving you a massage.”

Crowley snorted a derisive laugh. “Oh but you _were...” _ he begged.

“And I’ll continue to. Turn around for me? On your knees?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, appreciating the young man’s firm but questioning direction. He pushed himself up, his skin still alight with pleasure, and he groaned as he turned, facing the armrest and looking back at Noah as he placed one knee on either side of him.  


Instead of immediately pushing back inside him, as Crowley had desperately hoped he would, Noah placed his soft, warm, perfect hands on his lower back, caressing around to his hips, then back to his spine.

Crowley wanted to goad him, whine and complain that he get back to business, but...

His hands were _fucking magic_. He sent pointed, gentle thumbs dragging all the way up his spine, following the lines of muscle with practiced precision. When he reached Crowley’s neck, he used a thumb and pointer finger to pinch and massage the tense muscles at the base of his skull.

The complete relaxation warred with his arousal, and he found himself desperately wanting both a rabid fuck and a nice, long nap.

He released a heady sigh, bending his arms and relaxing against the armrest, allowing his head to fall limp between his arms.

“That’s it,” Noah’s sultry voice was like poured molasses, and Crowley again felt the urge to collapse and go to sleep... were it not for his achingly hard cock, he might have.

He noticed a short absence, but it was quickly replaced with the thick scent of peppermint and the light tingle of oil dripping down over his ribs.

Then Noah’s presence was back, rubbing in the oil and trailing it down, over his ribs, and around to his chest as he bent over Crowley’s back and held him tightly. Crowley could feel his hard length against his arse, and he resisted the urge to rut back against him, prodding him.

That decision became much more difficult when Noah’s powerful fingers lightly trailed over his nipples, sending little jolts of electric pleasure through him and making his throat tingle.

“Noah... _please_...” he begged, needy and trembling.

“Alright, lovely, alright,” Noah conceded, a single hand leaving Crowley’s chest to line himself back up.

Crowley groaned for him as he pushed back in, the hand still on his chest continuing to tease his nipple and making him squirm. Crowley jerked as he found himself delightfully full, releasing a forced breath and rocking his hips to meet Noah’s careful, languid, fluid movements.

His first hint that it was happening again was a low, twinging sting in his ribs. Then the full flare-up shot through his chest, like a knife to the sternum, stealing his breath from his lungs.

He tensed, crying out as tears came to his eyes.

“Shit, Anthony, are you—”

Noah began to immediately pull away, but Crowley threw back a frantic hand, wrapping it around Noah’s thigh and pulling him back, keeping him tentatively inside him.

_“No...no, no,” _ he gasped, gripping even harder, panting through the pain. “Don’t... don’t go, _please...” _

He searched in his addled brain for words that would get him what he wanted, what he _needed. _

_“Stay,” _ he whimpered, grinding his teeth. “Make me forget the pain. _Please. Make me forget...” _

“Anthony... I shouldn’t...” Noah whispered directly into Crowley’s ear, his hands now wrapped tightly around him, one splayed over his heart, no doubt feeling its thrumming, hammering beats beneath his fingertips.

“You should,” Crowley begged, biting his lip as the pain peaked. _“Please, please...” _

He wasn’t sure if it was the manic need in his voice, or his grip, tightly holding Noah against him, but Noah relaxed, cautiously curling his hips.

“Alright, lovely. Just... tell me if you need me to stop.”

The wonderful drag of his thick cock was perfectly distracting, aiming Crowley’s concentration away from his still-aching ribcage.

He shook his head ‘no’ hurriedly, biting his lip and dropping to his elbows on the armrest. The angle swiftly changed, and both of them cried out, developing a synced-up rhythm, slow but purposeful.

When Noah reached around him again, this time enveloping his cock in a slick, tight fist, he knew he was done for.

_“Yes,” _ he whispered, gripping the soft leather of the sofa and pushing back to meet Noah’s thrusts.

The pain was all but forgotten as the heat built back up rapidly in Crowley’s cock, and he felt his balls draw in tight in preparation.

Noah’s strokes grew faster, focusing more on the tip, and suddenly his other hand was pressing at the base of Crowley’s balls, keeping him from tipping over the edge.

_“Shit, Noah, please...” _ he pleaded, bucking hard to get away from the pressure stopping his release, but he was unable to. He simply floated, suspended in unbearable pleasure as Noah’s cock dragged over his prostate _over and over and over. _

“Just a little longer,” Noah croaked out, his hand on Crowley’s cock losing its rhythm, signifying that he too was close.

“Almost there, lovely. _Come with me_,” he growled, his tongue dragging over Crowley’s spine, right where his hidden wings attached.

That was all he could take. It didn’t matter that Noah’s fingers were still pressing into him like a cock ring.

_“Fuck. I’m coming... I’m...” _

His entire body succumbed to it, his hips jerking as his orgasm plowed through him with the force of a wrecking ball. He felt his muscles spasm and flutter around Noah’s cock, and the young man cried out, thrusting hard into him. He could feel the hot fluid release inside him as he continued to ride out his own, splattering the couch below him with surprising intensity.

Noah groaned, his hips stuttering a few more times and stimulating Crowley again. His hand worked once more on Crowley’s cock, and he found that it still wasn’t over—another flash of heat going through him and making even more come dribble out over Noah’s still gently moving hand.

Crowley wasn’t usually one for ‘thank you’s after a good shag—thank you was for being handed a coffee, for someone holding the door for you. Thanking someone for sex had always seemed arbitrary, lame, and unnecessary. If he’d had an orgasm, that was thanks enough.

But the young man had tried to stop when the pain hit, tried to be considerate. And Crowley had forced him to keep going, and that... that needed to be addressed.

“Thank you... for... for... I... _needed this_,” he gasped between gulping breaths, his chest still heaving as his flesh tingled all over with pleasure. It was perfect—replacing, at least for now, the constant, all-over agonies that had plagued him since the exorcism.

Noah panted in tandem with him, extricating his hand from Crowley’s still extremely sensitive cock, making his hips jerk in response, and running his fingertips over Crowley’s abs.

“Well...” he began, but paused to swallow audibly, a groan trailing it. “You asked so nicely...”

Crowley giggled, enjoying the way Noah slowly pulled away, dragging his hands as he went and raking them over Crowley’s abs to his hips, which he squeezed gently.

It again made Crowley’s hips jerk in response, and Noah let out an appreciative grumble, finally pulling all the way out and leaning away.

Crowley fairly collapsed onto the couch, sated, warm, and so comfortably numb. He turned, propping his head on his palm as he watched Noah stand and reach for his pants and trousers.

“Seems I... got a bit distracted,” Noah said as he pulled his trousers on, groaning a bit as he stuffed himself back in and zipped up. “Would you like me to continue the massage?”

Crowley blinked slowly, _very ready_ for a nap.

“Nah. Think I got my money’s worth,” he said, admiring the sheen of sweat covering Noah’s body as he pulled his shirt back on.

Noah laughed, turning to toss the silk towels, oil, and stereo back into his duffel bag and fold up his table.

Crowley dressed as he did, watching intently as the lad collected everything and straightened again. He followed him slowly, feeling himself captivated by the way Noah moved as he carried his folded table and bag to the door. Crowley leaned casually against the opposite wall, crossing his arms against his chest and waiting expectantly for the parting words—humans were like that.

Just as he’d expected, Noah slowly set his things down in the doorway, turning back and approaching Crowley, walking very sensually, and brandished Crowley’s sunglasses. He held them up between them, and for a moment, it seemed that they were the only thing keeping their lips from touching again.

Crowley took them with a single finger, allowing them to dangle off dangerously as he simply stared back at Noah.

The young man’s eyes shifted a bit, and they narrowed, now containing what looked like worry.

“You have someone to look after you?” he asked, his breath ghosting Crowley’s lips.

The question hit Crowley rather hard, as for the first time, he found that he could unashamedly answer it...

“I do, yeah,” he croaked, breaking their eye contact and clearing his voice. Aziraphale’s visage appeared in his mind’s eye, happy and doting, bringing Crowley a cup of tea, a blanket, a glass of wine.

“Well...” Noah said, moving in even closer, a hand resting on Crowley’s waist. “Let them.”

“S’cuse me?” Crowley looked up at him critically.

Noah shrugged, continuing casually as his thumb began to caress back and forth against Crowley’s hip, pleasantly distracting him.

“I know your type, Anthony Crowley.”

Crowley allowed his eyebrows to shoot up, feigning shock. “Do you, now?”

Noah nodded, his thumb pausing before working down beneath the waistband of his tight jeans, the pad of his thumb now following the harsh line of Crowley’s hip bone. Crowley had to fight a vicious urge to yank the young man back into the flat and drag him to the bedroom.

“I do, yeah,” Noah said, his voice nearly a whisper now. He looked back up to meet Crowley’s eyes, and they now held a fiery conviction.

“You’re strong, you’re aloof. You’re _smooth and cool. _ You don’t need anyone, certainly don’t need anyone’s help or pity.”

He reached up with his free hand then, clasping both Crowley’s hand and his glasses, and pushing them down.

“But you’re hiding a lot of pain. And I know you’ve got this facade to uphold, this cool guy exterior. And letting someone help breaks it down, ruins it. So you gallivant around, hook up with random massage therapists...”

Crowley grinned, watching the intensity in Noah’s eyes burn brighter like a flint and following it with a lazy sway like the captivated snake he was.

“And for a while, it helps. But you need something more. You can’t burn the candle at both ends forever.”

Crowley rocked his hips against Noah’s intruding thumb, giving him a naughty, dismissive glare.

“Oh, you’d be surprised what I can do,” he said, all sultry and sensual. “And you benefitted from it just fine.”

Noah nodded. “I’m sure I would. And you’re right, I did _benefit_ from it. But now... now it’s your turn. Let this person, whoever they are... let them take care of you. I’ll sleep better, at any rate... knowing you’re alright.”

“Is that so?” Crowley asked, still trying to be dismissive but finding a lump rising in his throat.

Noah flattened his palm against Crowley’s hip, _pressing_ and leaning in as he pinned Crowley to the wall by the hip.

“It is,” he whispered, lightly pressing his lips to Crowley’s cheek, the move surprisingly chaste. “Say you will?”

Something about it _hurt_. Being asked to put himself first, being asked to deny his 6000 years of _keep going_, of _just power through_, of putting the job first, putting the ruse first. It was first nature now, ignoring the pain, ignoring his own desires, ignoring what he _wanted for himself_. Because every time he even dared to go after what _he wanted_, damn the job, damn _the temptation_... he ended up strung up in some office in Hell, bleeding for his mistake. And he knew he was free now, knew that he didn’t have to function like the damn infernal engine that could. But he wasn’t quite prepared yet, wasn’t ready to let that guard down. Part of him still believed that Lucifer was hiding behind every corner, every book shelf, every table at the Ritz... waiting to pounce on him and drag him back down, cackling maniacally at the fact Crowley had _dared_ think himself free.

He swallowed hard, those same conditioned reactions rising up to protect him against the gentleness, protect him from someone’s _care_.

“Yeah,” he said... _he lied_, staring down at where Noah’s hand was still wrapped around his own. “Yeah, I... I will.”

Noah smiled, painfully genuine, and stepped back. Crowley resisted the urge to follow, to lean back in, to search out that hand on his hip, that breath on his lips.

“Good,” Noah said, picking up his folded table and bag. He backed out of the flat, eyes fixed on Crowley’s, obsessively intent.

“You have a good night, _Anthony,”_ he said, winking as he flung a foot out and kicked the elevator button with disregard.

Crowley adored it.

“You too, Noah. Thank you.”

His chest ached suddenly, but it wasn’t an exorcism flare-up. It was something else, something much more personal. He’d felt it several times in his long, _long_ life; the most recent being as he stood in the midst of an inferno in a bookshop, desperately searching for something he knew he wouldn’t find.

He groaned, frustration suddenly mingling with the remnants of pleasure in his veins, and he shuffled to his bedroom, collapsing face down onto the black sheets.


	17. Aziraphale's Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has an idea about how to help Crowley recover from the exorcism. Crowley _does not_ like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

Patience was a virtue, but it wasn’t one Aziraphale had managed to keep caged in his repertoire. Especially when it came to the suffering of those around him—he physically couldn’t stomach it, not for long periods of time, anyway. The longer he felt it, emanating from someone like perfume, the more he felt compelled to make it stop. He supposed it was a natural part of being an angel—like the laughter of a hyena, or the quick tongue of a snake. He wasn’t sure if all angels felt this overriding need, this mounting unsteadiness in the presence of pain, but then again, he wouldn’t know, would he? Suffering wasn’t something that abounded in Heaven, and that’s where all the angels were. Pain only existed here, on Earth. Well... and one other place...

Crowley wasn’t doing well, but he was making a valiant effort to mask it, especially after Raziel’s visit and the reveal of Aziraphale’s trials. Aziraphale felt the need to be offended that Crowley thought he would be able to fool the angel, but then again... people only keep secrets when they _want to_. For some reason or another, Crowley didn’t wish to burden Aziraphale with his post-exorcism troubles, and unfortunately, it was probably guilt. _Guilt_ at having already troubled him enough, and not wanting to burden him as he underwent his Heavenly trials.

_My dear_, Aziraphale had considered blurting on numerous occasions, _I am an angel. To quell suffering is literally my job description, and you are not a burden._

He hadn’t said these things, though, mainly because he knew Crowley would simply get defensive, as he’d been doing; ‘there’s nothing for it angel, just stop bringing it up. I’ll deal with it.’

_Deal with it_. Aziraphale hated that phrase. Somewhere along its travels on the road of vernacular usage, it had been twisted to mean ‘get over it.’ Which should never be said of anyone’s suffering, no matter how slight. People deal with things differently, people struggle differently, and to need help is no crime.

_People_. There was the first problem, and probably the one that Crowley was using to justify isolating himself. They weren’t _people_, the two of them, and as such, more was expected of them. They should be stronger, they shouldn’t struggle, they shouldn’t require _help_. But this was unhealthy—something Crowley knew deeply and yet refused to recognize. He’d fallen into this spiral before, and nothing good ever waited at the bottom, be it a century-long nap or violent demonic outburst. 

It was on this train of thought that Aziraphale was traveling, while absently shelving newly acquired books, that an idea crossed the tracks and was abruptly struck.

_Grey’s Anatomy_ was the tome he was shelving, and it seemed so obvious to the angel now. Humans couldn’t fix an inner problem from the outside, they required surgery. After all, one cannot fix a problem one cannot see, cannot _touch_. They may not be human, but their forms were human enough. And it was in that regard that the demon was struggling—he’d been violently torn out of his form and then shoved back in—off kilter and unhinged at every corner. He’d been twitchy, dizzy, and sometimes he would seize up as if electrocuted, and it would take monstrous concentration to break free from it. Like he’d been plopped back into a room he’d lived in all his immortal life, but in his absence, someone had rearranged the furniture and turned off all the lights.

This wasn’t Crowley’s first exorcism, ergo Aziraphale had seen these symptoms before. And that had _not_ ended well, for anyone involved. It had taken almost eighty years for the side effects to wear off, and at that point, Crowley was so exhausted that he’d slept for another hundred.

Aziraphale was not going to let that happen again. 

To his knowledge, no angel had ever attempted what he was considering, but then, they wouldn’t have. But it stood to reason that it could work. All he’d have to do is try. Surely, Crowley would let him _try? _

He did whatever research he could, albeit limited and laughably unhelpful, and then made certain arrangements out of town. It would be tricky, and he assumed that the farther they got from humanity, the better. And then came the hard part.

Convincing Crowley.

He didn’t have to wait long; the book shop hardly went a week these days without a demonic visit. Like a plant needing to be watered or... threatened. What it needed would eventually show up.

And show up it did, languid and looking tired, but genuinely happy to be there. He shuffled to the back, halfheartedly grunting a greeting to Aziraphale as he slumped onto the couch.

“What are you feeling, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as casually as he could. Crowley could almost always hear the ‘planning something’ tone in the angel’s voice. “Tea, wine... something stronger?”

Crowley took a deep breath, trying very hard to hide the whine on the exhale. He may have even been successful, had his counterpart not possessed angelic hearing. 

“Nothing for me, thanksss,” Crowley hissed, shoving his sunglasses up into his disheveled hair and haphazardly throwing an elbow over his eyes as he sank further back into the couch cushions.

He hadn’t eaten or drank much since the exorcism, except on a few very intentional occasions, and had mumbled something about nausea. He’d even snuck out, in those first few weeks that Aziraphale insisted on keeping him at the shop for observation purposes, and gone to get exceedingly drunk at Penny’s. Apparently it had gone fine, but Crowley hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since, which led Aziraphale to believe he’d overdone it.

“Come on Crowley, just a little something? Weak tea, at least?” Aziraphale begged, but Crowley quickly nodded ‘no,’ groaning uncomfortably. It wasn’t that they needed it, they didn’t _need_ anything. But perhaps it would help a little—the warmth, at the very least?

Aziraphale watched him for a moment, the occasional grimace crossing his features, the off twitch making a fist ball up or a foot kick out.

“Crowley, I...” he began, approaching cautiously as one does a... well, a snake. “I’ve had an idea.”

“Well that’s never good,” Crowley had the energy to mumble, and Aziraphale could see the crooked grin protruding from beneath his draped arm.

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale snapped, with no real scolding in it. He peered down at the copy of _Grey’s Anatomy_ he’d left out, choosing his words carefully. 

“I’ve done a bit of research, and I think... well I think, my dear...”

He paused, knowing that prodding this particular subject was likely to get him metaphorically bitten. 

He huffed, approaching and plopping into his plush chair near the fire, crossing his legs stiffly. 

“I think I can help you, my dear boy, if you’ll jus—”

“Oh, not_ this again_,” Crowley grumbled, dropping his arm to slap dramatically into his lap and lifting his head to stare accusingly at Aziraphale. His stare was unforgiving, but his pupils, dilated with pain as they had been for months, only strengthened the angel’s resolve.

“Don’t argue!” Aziraphale interrupted, only slightly raising his voice, as the demon still struggled from time to time with his hyper-acute senses.

Crowley blinked hard, falling quiet.

“Just... hear me out. And if you don’t like what I have to say, I shan’t bring it up again. Alright?” he asked, already regretting his earlier raised tone. Crowley looked away from him, staring intentionally off into the fire. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Right. I got to thinking about the nature of _human_ injuries, and how they go about fixing them. A doctor cannot fix something he can’t see. And since this isn’t an outward injury of yours, I can’t seem to do anything about it. _However...” _

Crowley seemed to have followed his line of reasoning, because his eyes widened in fear.

Aziraphale continued before he could protest. “I am capable of possessing a human without damaging the human that already resides there. It’s a little cramped, bu—”

“No. _No no no no_, Aziraphale. Absolutely _not_...” Crowley replied in a panic, shaking his head furiously.

“Now, you said you’d hear me out...”

“Yes, that was before you suggested hopping in here with me like I’m... like it’s some kind of... bloody…_ coat we’d be sharing...” _

“It’s rather more complicated than that...”

_“Christ, Aziraphale!” _ Crowley shouted, pushing to his feet and turning his back. He paced for a moment, but paused to grip his temples. When he spun back around, he looked quite furious.

“Do you have _any idea_ what that’ll do to me? _What I could do to you?! _ Angels and demons aren’t meant to be in that close a proximity! You could destroy me, permanently...”

“You really think I would let that hap—”

_“I could destroy you! _Haven’t you ever seen a wounded animal before, I... might not be able to stop myself, fighting back, backed into literally the farthest corner I can possibly be backed into... I could... don’t you remember what I did to the humans around me _the last time?!” _

The books had begun rattling on their shelves, and Crowley looked at them heatedly.

“And _this!” _ he yelled. “I can’t even contain my power when I’m even moderately upset, I can’t even... _imagine...” _

Aziraphale held up his hands in gentle surrender.

“Crowley, take a breath, please,” Aziraphale calmly said, allowing the silence that followed. Crowley sighed, covering his face in his hands and taking a very tentative breath.  


“We’re just _talking about it,” _ Aziraphale tried.

“No, I know how this goes,” said Crowley bitterly. “You’ll talk me in circles until eventually you get your way...”

”Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded, but did not raise his voice. He didn’t even try to keep the hurt from it. “We’re talking about me invading _everything you are, your most private space. _ You really think I would do that without your complete and utter consent?”

Crowley was silent, but he fidgeted, grabbing an upper arm self-consciously.

Aziraphale stood, approaching a now very defensive demon. Resting his hands feather-light on Crowley’s shoulders, he finally met his eyes.

“Crowley, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. You’re in pain. I can feel it coming off of you, it’s _suffocating. _ But for some reason or another you think you have to do this alone. Last time, you suffered for nearly a century. I don’t want that again. _I believe I can help you. _But it is going to be strange, and very exposing. If you tell me no, _I will accept it. _ But please at least consider what I am suggesting. Your pain will be gone, the dizziness will be gone, the sensitivity will be gone. You can _enjoy living again, _ if you’ll just _let me try.” _

Crowley looked down at the floor, his sunglasses shifting dangerously in his hair. He reached up to grab them, the fact that his hand was trembling not going unnoticed.

Folding them delicately and stashing them in an inner pocket in his coat, he took a terribly shaky breath, and nodded.

“Can... can I, er... think about it a bit?” he mumbled in the tone of a child who can’t dispute an argument well-made and is simply trying to save face.

Aziraphale smiled, dragging his hands down off the demon’s shoulders to clamp them, gently of course, onto his upper arms.

“Of course, Crowley. This is all up to you. I’ve figured out how to go about it, made the arrangements...”

“Arrangements?” asked Crowley suspiciously, stepping back and out of Aziraphale’s grasp to meander back to the couch.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley’s every move more critically now, noticing his ginger footsteps, the way he sat stiffly, the roll of one shoulder uncomfortably. “As you said, you, er... did some regrettable things, after... the last one. I thought, perhaps... it would be best, if we were to, er...”

It was Crowley’s turn to be endeared by Aziraphale’s dithering, grinning mischievously. “Get us a nice bed and breakfast in Dover? Oh, Aziraphale, I thought you’d never ask!”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling the earlier tension waft away suddenly, as if on a book-scented breeze. Crowley was good that way—forcing calm when he was ready for it. 

He returned the demon’s smile tentatively, returning to his chair and sitting. “Not Dover, no,” he said, picking up his book and reading glasses, which Crowley scoffed at. “It’s just a little vacation rental in the South Downs, nothing fancy, just secluded enough to afford a bit of... _ethereal chaos, _ should it arise.”

At that, Crowley was quiet, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. Aziraphale pretended to have engrossed himself in his book, but instead he used the opportunity to peer stealthily over the rim of his glasses at the demon.

His heart ached for him. He could see the signs of his suffering, the twitches, the grimaces, but more so he could _feel it_ radiating through his aura in suffocating waves. Sometimes it would ebb back, and he would seem to lull into a cautious relaxation, but it would simply strike back with a vengeance, flaring out across his aura with the force and intensity of a vicious lightning strike, the suddenness of it making Aziraphale jump. 

Crowley’s body language took on a reserved slump, and Aziraphale suddenly knew that Crowley was going to accept. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but there was simply something in the way Crowley turned slightly toward him, the way his aura opened up to him.

“Don’t... don’t suppose you could stay out of my thoughts, could you?” he asked with a sad smile.

Aziraphale let his book tilt forward to rest against his thighs.

“You know that’s not how it works, my dear. But I can certainly try to give you as much privacy as is possible. At any rate, I would be concentrating on the tears in your bond to your corporation,” said Aziraphale gently. He wasn’t sure what Crowley would wish to hide from him, but that wasn’t his decision to make. If Crowley wanted something hidden in the recesses of his mind, then he was allowed to do so. But Aziraphale recalled the extended time he had spent in Madame Tracy’s body, and the boundaries between them had been practically nonexistent. He could feel the sensations in her body, he received wild, unorganized floods of thoughts, things she considered saying but didn’t, bits and pieces of her medium abilities (which were unbelievably not a ruse, but they were much weaker than she’d lead most clients to believe). It was jarring and confusing, making Aziraphale unsure where he ended and she began. Never had he been more thankful than when Adam separated them.

“Is that a yes then?” Aziraphale asked quietly, but continued quickly. “And don’t agree just because you feel obligated, or because you’re worried about what I will think if you refuse, or any of that. This is an invasion of your privacy on the highest level, and I understand that, believe me, I do. The only yes I want is one you really, _truly_ mean.”

“No, I know that, I know,” Crowley said, a hint of fondness in his voice. He paused, rubbing his hands together warily and staring down at them with sheepish regard.

“But... you’re right. Obviously the thought of it... it’s... well. I was bound to react with a bit of skepticism. But I think... I think if you can make this... _make it stop_, then... we should give it a shot.”

“You really think so?” Aziraphale asked again, wary of asking so many times but keen on getting true consent.

Crowley nodded, finally meeting the angel’s eyes, and the sincerity there was enough that he didn’t require the words.

“Alright, then. You just tell me when you’re ready, and we’ll go.”

Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “What about… your trials?”

“They specifically said there was no deadline, not on this first one,” Aziraphale said gently, appreciating that Crowley was _still_ being selfless, even in the face of something so potentially exposing.

“Yeah, but…_ ‘should you drag your feet on this matter, it shall be known’,” _Crowley grumbled, making air quotes.

“The dragging of feet implies laziness or neglect. I’m not neglecting my trial. I’m… shelving it. Like a book!”

Crowley scoffed, but smiled. 

“This… this is important. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Crowley nodded again, a small grin spreading across his lips. “You know... I think I will take a cup of tea, if the offer still stands.”

“Of course, my dear, what kind would you like?”

“Surprise me.”


	18. The South Downs, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have traveled to a little cottage in the South Downs to do a bit of healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> Sorry this one is so short.

The cottage in the South Downs was so absurdly _Aziraphale_—tartan accented furniture, golden gilded mirrors and clocks, antique pastel area rugs, and fringe... _so much fringe_— that Crowley had a moment of déjà vu, feeling as if he had stepped through a portal and into the flat above the bookshop.

“Ugh, Aziraphale... did you come up here early and decorate? It’s positively... _dismal_,” he drawled, sauntering further inside and staring at himself in one of the many decorative mirrors. Even with the sunglasses on, he could see how worn and tired and stressed his own features were—brows drawn together, lips pursed thinly. He made an active attempt to relax his disposition, but all that happened was a forced drop of his shoulders that came off as more of an uncomfortable shrug.

“Of course not, my dear,” Aziraphale replied distractedly, turning to pull the creaky and cracked chalk-white door closed, having to pull dramatically at it to get the off-kilter latch in the jam. He turned, flustered and fussing at his jumper, to face Crowley and to examine the interior of the cottage himself.

He made a _tsk_ sound against his teeth.

“Oh come now, Crowley, this is even a bit too gauche for my tastes... surely you don’t find me so... so... _Mrs. Doubtfire.” _

"I do. And don't call me Shirley," Crowley snorted, his smile breaking the worry lines that came of a two-and-a-half hour road trip that consisted of silently fretting over the destination and subsequent task. Not even good ole Freddie had been able to quell the tension, though he sure did give it the Mr. Fahrenheit try.

He took a deep, albeit a bit shuddering breath, walking across the living room and past a horrendous floral couch to a sliding glass door that overlooked a small but lush garden, black iron table and chairs, and waist-high wrought iron fence. Beyond was a long, easy-sloping hill peppered with wildflowers and weeds in equal measure, and finally a cliff edge that overlooked a secluded alcove harboring misty grey rock formations and a gorgeous little beach. Without thinking, Crowley pulled the glass door just barely, closing his eyes contentedly and breathing in deeply the salty and slightly warm breeze that flowed in immediately.

He tried not to fret, but really... it was the only thing on his mind. The worst that could happen, the awful-case scenario, the hidden and often stomped-down reflexes that came of being a demon; he could react badly. He could hurt Aziraphale, Hell... no one had ever attempted what they were attempting, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he could _destroy Aziraphale. _ Or Aziraphale could destroy him. Or, in the slightly lesser range of awful-case scenario, they could seriously maim one another, become inseparable, permanently sharing a corporation that couldn’t handle two ethereal… occult... _whatever_ beings rattling around inside it. They could destroy his corporation, and he’d end up...

Oh _somebody_, he could end up discorporated and having to beg for another from Lucifer, who’d made it clear that he would provide him with one, but not without substantial...

_Collateral. _

The hand gently laying on his back registered more as a red-hot poker, and he leapt away, immediately regretting and feeling humiliated.

“Sorry, sorry. Sorry,” he bumbled, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes but seeing from his periphery that the angel had frozen in place, the hand that had touched him still held aloft.

“Quite alright, Crowley. Believe it or not, I do understand,” he said, allowing his hand to fall slowly to his side.

“I don’t think you do,” Crowley replied hastily, not meaning to sound derisive but hearing it in his tone anyway. He forced his voice to a more manageable level of stress. “It’s just...”

How could he say what he needed to? How could he keep his bubbling emotions from erupting from his lips like lava, while also conveying his true worry?

_It’s not me, Aziraphale. It’s not me I’m worried about. I mean, sure, having you in my corporation with me sounds terribly uncomfortable, and I don’t doubt that it’s going to be borderline excruciating for both of us. But I know I can handle it, I’ve spent 6000 years dealing with physical pain, I know what I can take. It’s you. You, you beautiful, selfless, kind, fussy_ bastard. _I’m worried I could hurt you, react in a panic, do something I don’t mean to, something in self-preservation, something I’ll regret. That’s what I do, I shut down and go into survival mode, do what I have to do. If you get too close, if something hurts and I just... flinch. But flinching that close to you... metaphorically speaking... one wrong move, one slip of my instincts... you have no idea what it would do to me, knowing I’ve hurt you. More painful than anything Hell ever has or ever will do to me. And if it goes so horribly, terribly _wrong,_ and my cornered demonic nature snuffs you out, envelopes you, blots out your light. What do I do then, when I’ve destroyed my... when I’ve destroyed you? How do I live with myself then, Aziraphale? How do I live? _

“Crowley...?”

The cottage snapped back into view like spiraling through a kaleidoscope, fragments of pastels and florals working back together to form a strange but broken image that looked haphazardly right.

“Crowley, you’re breathing very hard, are you alright?”

Crowley took stock quickly—_just panicked a bit in front of Aziraphale. Hands are shaking, breathing’s too fast. Fix it, fast, before he worries. _

He cleared his throat hard, inhaling deeply and holding the breath to practically inflate himself, straightening his spine and rolling his shoulders a bit more squarely.

“Yep. Fine, good. Dandy. You think there’s anything to drink around this place?” he asked flippantly, turning away with haste and hurrying toward an open-plan kitchen.

“No, no, Crowley, I want you completely cognizant for this. I’m sorry. I know it would ease your anxiety on the issue, but I need you completely alert, in case you need me to stop, for any reason,” Aziraphale hurried to respond, following Crowley at the heels. When the demon turned to argue, he found that they almost collided. Aziraphale used the opportunity to reach up and pluck Crowley’s glasses from his eyes, stashing them hurriedly into a pocket of his overcoat.

Exposed and vulnerable, Crowley’s argument died on his forked tongue, and he averted his gaze to the scuffed but polished wood floor.

Aziraphale leaned down into his line of sight, position rather comically bent so that Crowley had no choice but to meet that sapphire gaze.

“Crowley,” he said simply, reaching out and placing his hands gently on the demon’s upper arms, caging him into a comforting grip. “If you’re not ready, we wait. For months, if we must...”

“But you paid for this rental, and I said...” Crowley began weakly.

“I will continue to pay for this place for as long as we need, with miracled money if I must...”

“But... you _never_ do that... _don’t_ do that…”

“For this, I will!” Aziraphale said back, voice slightly raised but still gentle. “This is going to be very trying, mainly for you. And I want you to be ready. So if you need a few days, a nap, _whatever... _ you do what you need to do. I will not force this on you. I want you to be _ready.” _

Crowley thought for a long time, suddenly content to just let Aziraphale hold him like this... apart and at a distance, but still... held.

“M’not...” he began, finding a lump in his throat he had to swallow noisily before continuing. “M’not gonna _be_ much more ready than this.”

“You say that now,” Aziraphale started, and his hands clenched just a bit tighter on Crowley’s arms, and suddenly it was an anchor—like he’d been a kite adrift in a hurricane, and the angel’s wonderful, perfect hands had caught him, steadied him. “But I wouldn’t object if you just wanted to have a spot of dinner, and then go to sleep. And we could do this all tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you like.”

Crowley couldn’t help the affectionate smile that slithered onto his lips. Aziraphale really was pulling all the stops. He could be a bastard, in fact bastard was practically his default setting, but... occasionally Crowley was reminded that he was an angel for a reason.

He inhaled, held it, and blew it out through his slightly tight lips, then shook his head.

“More time will just make me worry more. I won’t eat, I won’t sleep. I’ll just fret more and more. Let’s just... get it over with.”

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asked again, and Crowley finally regained his composure enough to step out of the angel’s vice-like grip.

“Stop asking me that. No, I’m not sure. I’m bloody _petrified. _ But I think it could work, I _want it to work. _ And all I’m thinking now is how it could all go horrendously wrong, and I just panic, the more I think about it. So no. I’m not sure. But I still want you to try,” he said, halfway satisfied that he’d managed to at least say _some_ of what he’d meant.

Aziraphale nodded, turning back and strolling into the living room. He shrugged out of his overcoat, then began unbuttoning the cuffs of his sky blue dress shirt.

“Right, then,” he said, reaching for his bow tie and beginning to untie it. “Why don’t you... get into something more _comfortable...”_

Crowley had to snort to stifle his laughter, glad to feel the amusement chipping away at his anxiety.

“Why are you laughing?” Aziraphale asked curiously as he pulled the long strip of tartan bow tie from around his neck, flipped it over the back of the couch with his coat, and began unbuttoning the neck of his shirt.

“Don’t say it like that,” Crowley replied, rolling his shoulders back and slinking out of his jacket. “S’a movie trope. Humans say it like that when... well, when they’re getting naked.”

Aziraphale paused, puzzled. Then he shrugged and began rolling up his sleeves.

“Well, I suppose... if you’re comfortable... that way...”

“Bloody heaven, no!” Crowley yelped, and the laughter that followed erupted from his throat frantically. Sometimes Aziraphale could be so... so... _adorably oblivious._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's "Don't call me Shirley" joke... name that movie!


	19. The South Downs, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins the herculean task of healing Crowley. It goes... about as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: uhhhhh Teen+ I think?  
Difficult to say. Some... ethereal injury? It's hard to describe.

Aziraphale found himself rather awkwardly standing in the middle of the quaint cottage living room, waiting for a pacing Crowley to come to him. He’d tried to insist on Crowley’s complete consent, but it was clear the demon was never going to be ready, judging by his pacing and muttering, but he still wanted Aziraphale to try.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley finally approached, stripped down to nothing but his slacks and black shirt, sleeves hastily pushed rather than rolled up to the elbows. He was quite obviously trembling a bit as he approached, but as it had taken a monstrous effort to get the demon to this level of calm, Aziraphale didn’t comment.

Aziraphale met his eyes one last time, holding out his hands palm up. He wasn’t sure they would need to touch for him to enter Crowley’s corporation, but it seemed logical—a point of contact through which to channel himself.

Crowley hissed out a breath and then stopped altogether, staring down at Aziraphale’s hands like they were burners he had to set his own on. He raised his hands, hovering over Aziraphale’s for a solid thirty seconds before yanking them back, turning away, and spitting out an anxious _“fuck!”_

Normally Aziraphale would have chastised him, but he decided to let him have his moment of questioning. And question he did, hands gripping into his hair as he tapped a foot repeatedly against the hardwood. 

“Alright, boundaries,” he spat, spinning around but remaining several feet back from Aziraphale, who slowly let his hands fall back to his sides. He tried not to look perturbed at the delay, as he wished to give Crowley all the time he needed.

“You’re going to see my thoughts, that’s a given. If... if you... _see something_ that you didn’t know about... about me, or something that I’ve made up, or pictured, or... just... thoughts in general. Please just, know that sometimes they’re just involuntary, I wouldn’t... act on them, I just... my imagination goes wild sometimes. And then those things just... _sear_ into my brain, and I can’t get rid of them, even if I don’t want them there, even if... if...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said as gently as possible, reminiscent of cooing a spooked horse. The demon took a few more frantic breaths before stilling and looking up at Aziraphale. His slit pupils were so dilated they almost appeared round.

“I understand. I know how it works, brains and the like. I won’t intentionally intrude, but if I come across something, I won’t fixate, alright? And I won’t mention it afterward, if you don’t want me to. If you wish to discuss something I see while I’m... _in there...” _

Crowley scoffed bitterly.

“Then it’ll be up to you to broach the topic. Yes?”

Crowley swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly as he stood, statuesque, staring at Aziraphale.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, pursing his lips and returning to stand opposite the angel.

Aziraphale nodded, careful to watch the demon’s body language as he waited, this time, for Crowley to raise his hands. He did, palms up, fingers trembling like fall leaves. The burned-in pentagram that Lucifer left there shone like a beacon, the scar still, and probably forever, fresh. Aziraphale ignored it as best he could as he slowly placed his palms against Crowley’s, fingers slanted off each wrist to wrap easily around the side of them, thumbs resting gently over the pulse point, which was trip-hammering away.

“Crowley, I know you don’t want me asking if you’re ready again, but I need a ‘yes,’ or something. I don’t wish to surprise you,” Aziraphale said in such a hushed tone that no human ever would have heard it.

Crowley stood, staring down in a fixation at their hands, his whole body a mess of jitters. He was silent for almost two whole minutes, obviously trying to regulate his breathing and failing miserably, hyperventilated breaths forced from his nose.

Finally, with a deep inhale, he closed his eyes and muttered “yeah” so quietly that it may have just been mouthed.

Aziraphale wasted no time, closing his eyes and concentrating on the points where their hands met, focusing his core and forcing it to condense. Like channeling a river through a dam, he thought absently, as his angelic essence slimmed down and began to travel through the space he could sense between them. It was strange, moving without senses—no sight, no smell, no taste. Suddenly he was nothing and everything at once, his earthly vessel slowly floating away like a buoy out at sea. His essence began to flow, naturally, toward the channel he had created, and it felt...

Hot. As he approached, it was like flames, and he could feel it growing stronger as he found himself against a metaphysical wall of sorts, a barrier that he knew was going to be difficult to cross.

He pressed in against it, feeling an instant recoil, but an almost immediate give and surrender.

He tried once more, pushing against the barrier and feeling it begin to break...

Suddenly he was shoved violently back, jolting back into his own corporation and yelping as he opened his eyes.

Crowley was absolutely shaking now, nodding his head viciously.

“M’sorry, m’sorry... _I’m sorry_, Aziraphale. I didn’t mean to. It’s like... it’s like letting someone cut you, I just couldn’t... hold still. Did I hurt you?!” Crowley babbled, worry etched across his curved brows and trembling lips.

“Shhh, it’s fine Crowley. It’s going to take a few tries. You do what you have to do, I won’t blame you in the slightest. May I try again?”

Crowley swallowed again, grinding his teeth and closing his eyes with obvious effort. He nodded, but didn’t speak.

In no time at all, Aziraphale found himself returned to the barrier of Crowley’s corporation, and he focused on being slow and gentle. And sure enough, Crowley began to give, allowing Aziraphale to work past the barriers keeping him out. It became more and more uncomfortable for the angel the further he dove, feeling that all-encompassing heat effusing into a scorching burn, and he knew it was Crowley’s demonic core. It wasn’t meant to be this close to an angel, it wasn’t meant to face so much light. Likewise, his light wasn’t meant to be so acutely surrounded by darkness.

The dull ache of it began to pound into a wavering pain, and Aziraphale absently wondered how much worse it would get, not just for him. He was at full strength. He hadn’t been recently exorcised.

He formed a thought, bringing it to the forefront of his essence and projecting it as best he could into what would pass for speech in this bodiless, melded form.

_“Crowley? Still with me, still alright?” _

Aziraphale began to worry when he received no response, so much so that he stopped his progress and held his essence absolutely still.

_“Crowley?” _

_“Here. Fine. Keep going.” _

The response was curt and sounded pained, but Aziraphale took him at face value, although he recalled Crowley’s statement of “I know what I can take”—which wasn’t entirely true. He had a habit of forcing himself well past what he could take simply because he expected more of himself.

Aziraphale pressed onward, beginning to sense a presence ebbing toward him like approaching the light at the end of a tunnel. As it began to come into view, so to speak, he realized (far too late) that it was Crowley’s subconscious; a haphazard and untamed collection of sensations, memories, unperformed considerations.

It hit Aziraphale like a freight train bearing down on him—the pure bliss which bordered on obscene that accompanied good wine, pangs of unadulterated loneliness which hurt Aziraphale’s heart... or whatever passed for a heart currently. Envy, for the ignorant lives of human beings, envy for their ability to persevere, envy for their...

_Love. _

Those particular bits of emotion quickly morphed into something bastardized; things a demon is told to feel, things a demon is supposed to turn love into if given the chance. The only acceptable “love” Hell would allow him.

Aziraphale would have blushed if he could.

_Unimaginable pleasure. Skin crawling, tingling. The rustle of sheets, cries and moans drawn out, uncontrollable. A young woman’s bright red nails on him, a handsome young man’s mouth. Burning eyes, heavy with intent. Sinful words falling from lips that didn’t even know his name... _

Desperate to preserve the demon’s privacy, Aziraphale pulled back a bit, sinking back toward the tunnel, as it were, afraid he’d gone too far. How far was far enough? Where was his bond to his corporation even located in this bedlam of _Crowley? _

He found that he collided with another piece of what..._ who_ Crowley was as he tried to retreat.

_Skin burning, wings burning. They beat uncontrollably, but nothing could stop the dizziness, the spiraling, the pain. Screaming, crying, begging. Distantly aware of others around him, but feeling so deeply, irrevocably, agonizingly alone. _

_And then it stopped. _

This time Aziraphale was the one who fled, feeling a deep-seeded terror beginning to seep into his very core, the echoes of those screams awakening something primal and primitive inside him that clawed to get away.

He found himself violently back in his own corporation, the tracks of cold sweat and shivers making him hyper aware of himself, of his reaction to coming into close personal contact with a Fall.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, that one is on me. I wasn’t prepa—”

He paused as he opened his eyes and found Crowley hunched over, gasping for air and clutching Aziraphale’s hands so hard the bones ached.

“Oh, Crowley, are you alright?!” Aziraphale asked hurriedly, pulling back to remove his hands from Crowley’s and touch his shoulder, or force him upright to gauge his state.

“Don’t!” Crowley cried, clamping harder to the angel’s hands, his knees wavering and almost giving out. “Don’t... don’t move... just... give me a moment.”

Aziraphale quieted, his mind racing in a thousand different directions at once—had he hurt Crowley, had he accidentally plowed into a long-ago cordoned off section of the demon’s memories? How did he avoid doing it again, when they seemed to greet him as soon as he was past the physical barrier of Crowley’s body?

“My dear, do we need to stop?” Aziraphale whispered, receiving a frantic nod ‘no.’

“M’fine. Just... one bloody second...” Crowley said, seeming to choke on the words. “If you’re going to jump out again, can you... please try to go a little slower? That... that was... rough...”

“Oh...” mumbled Aziraphale belatedly. He hadn’t even thought of that, he’d just panicked and fled. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I... well I saw...”

“I know what happened,” Crowley snapped, straightening. His features were twisted in pain, and there were streaks from tears down his cheeks. “It’s fine, just... steer in a different direction next time, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling the demon’s hands slacken against his.

The third go went smoother, both of them knowing what to expect and how to maneuver. Aziraphale felt a swell of pity as he found tracks of light like scars on the dark mass of Crowley’s essence, marking the path he’d taken to flee. He desperately wished to dwell on them, to attempt to heal them, but he had a much larger, much more important task to attend to.

As he dazedly made his way through the maze of _Crowley, _ he found that he held a newfound respect for the quartermasters of both Heaven _and_ Hell. Anyone who could successfully cram this much entity into a tiny human body deserved to be applauded, no matter if it took them a month to get around to it or not.

The angel felt a twinge of guilt as he poked and prodded through the connections within Crowley, feeling his entire being cowering away from Aziraphale’s every movement. He knew it was natural, knew they’d both likely suffer if he didn’t. But he despised the feeling, hoped never to have to witness it again.

He finally located the bond between Crowley’s ethereal form and his physical one, and it was like stepping into an airplane hangar with the lights off—aware that there was an end, but physically unable to perceive it. What he could see, however, were tears and pulls in the fabric of the bond, thousands of them, like cracks in the walls. They shone with red, a color likely provided by either Crowley or Aziraphale’s expectation of what a wound should look like. At this point, it wasn’t clear which one of them was in control, but it really didn’t matter.

Overwhelmed and worried, Aziraphale got to work on the tears. He allowed his floating essence to approach the closest one he could find, reaching out to it with tendrils of angelic light and healing. The moment it touched the wound, however, a monstrous pressure closed in around Aziraphale, and he began to feel a stinging sensation. It wasn’t and couldn’t be localized anywhere, but it registered dimly as a terrible headache.

He froze, reaching out with thoughts once more.

_“Crowley? What’s wrong?” _

The headache grew more intense, almost unbearable. For a split second, Aziraphale’s instincts prodded him to flee, but the memory of what he had done to Crowley last time kept him firmly in place, baring against the pain.

_“Hurts. Really bad.” _

_“Should I stop?” _

There was a heavy silence, in which Aziraphale could perceive racing thoughts going by outside the room-like location he found himself in. Flashes of pain and a deep, wavering desire to make it stop.

_“No. Keep going. I’ll tell you when I can’t take any more.” _

Aziraphale returned his essence to the wound before him, reaching out. He felt the same pressure again as he poured healing energy into it, but he was absently aware that Crowley was trying, with massive effort, to keep himself pulled back, to keep himself from retaliating.

They fell into a pattern, of sorts, with Aziraphale pausing between wounds to give the demon a reprieve. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been going, but it seemed he wasn’t even making a dent.

Crowley didn’t speak, his presence still cowering as far from the angel as he could get. Aziraphale spoke intermittently to him, _“it’s alright, you’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Just a little longer.”_ He could feel the pressure that signified Crowley’s will to stay back waning the longer they went. Aziraphale could feel the sting of his demonic core drawing closer and closer, knew that his own angelic core would likewise burn the demon.

He had lost count of how many he had healed when, quite suddenly, Crowley’s essence cornered him, backing him away from the tears, away from his corporeal bond altogether, like an advancing hound.

Before Aziraphale could speak, Crowley’s thoughts erupted violently.

_“Something’s wrong. Get out, angel. Now!” _

_“Alright, but just allow me to—”_

_“No, angel, now!” _

Aziraphale was about to argue about being told to retreat slowly, but his essence was suddenly attacked, yanked backward with force. The darkness completely enveloped him, clamping down like a vice. He would have screamed if he could have, but it ended rather quickly. Violently.

He groaned as he found himself back within his own corporation, ears ringing horribly and body feeling as if it’d been run down by a horse-drawn carriage. He registered a hard pressure all down his left side, accompanied by something slick and warm trickling down his temple. He realized with some shock that he was lying on the floor and must have fallen, head colliding with the stone hearth and causing the bleed. He disregarded the blood, for now, slowly blinking his eyes open, the blinding white light making him slam them shut and try again, but much slower.

“My dear, you told me to go slow and then forced me out...” he complained, head swimming as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

He felt like his heart hit his heels as he beheld the demon.

It looked like a bomb had gone off in the center of the living room—every piece of furniture flung back to the walls, decorative books, coasters, and candle holders littering the now very empty sitting room. Crowley was convulsing on the floor, his wings visible and beating wildly behind him, claws extending from his fingers and digging through the area rug and embedding in the hardwood. Cries of pain tore from his lips, and tears were streaming down his twisted face. He seized up suddenly, barely lifting himself onto his forearms and retching violently onto the floor, the liquid pure bile and blood.

“Oh God, Crowley!” Aziraphale howled, launching to his knees and approaching, having to bend in order to avoid the demon’s spasming wings. He reached out, resting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

The demon screamed, pushing away and scurrying across the floor, reminiscent of a downed raven, black feathers littering the flooring.

“Crowley, please talk to me, _what’s wrong?!” _ Aziraphale begged, feeling his own tears threatening.

Crowley inhaled hard, gagged, then fell into a coughing fit that rasped and flecked blood to his lips.

The television flashed on, white noise flaring across the screen and fuzzing through the speakers. Until a voice came through... Crowley’s voice.

“Too much...” it whined frantically. “We did too much. Feel myself... _fading. _ Freezing, burning, both. Neither.”

An ice cold chill steamrolled over Aziraphale.

“What... what can I do? Why are you speaking through the television?” Aziraphale asked, desperate to reach out but knowing it wouldn’t help.

“Hurts. Too much. _Everything. I can’t... can’t...” _

His buzzing words trailed off, and his body seized up again, wings pulled taut against his back protectively and trembling like leaves.

“What can I do?” Aziraphale asked again, the tears finally spilling over and mingling with the blood running down his cheek to form a macabre drip from his chin.

“Don’t... just don’t... _touch me, please,”_ the television hissed, static buzzing threateningly. “Just leave me...”

Aziraphale sniffed, determined to help somehow.

A wet washcloth, perhaps? He’d seen it in films, maybe it would help...

“Don’t go!” the TV practically roared as Aziraphale shifted to go find the linen closet, a pulse of demonic power making the lights flicker all throughout the house. Crowley’s hand shot out and latched onto Aziraphale’s wrist. His claws broke the skin with his grip, but Aziraphale did his best to ignore it. He rocked back onto his heels, settling in next to Crowley.

“Stay. _Please.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, okay? I'm an angst queen. But I always take care of them after.


	20. The South Downs, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns what happens when the two of them share a corporation for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+  
For more inexplicable... ethereal injury, I guess. 
> 
> A note: I'm sorry! It will get better soon, promise!

Crowley had expected it to get slowly worse, gradual; like slow exposure to sun, like a creeping sunburn, and to an extent, it did. The longer he and Aziraphale shared the same corporation, he could feel himself... fading, for lack of a better word. It manifested as a rising lethargy, a slowly receding ability to keep himself pulled back and away from the angel. But it wasn’t anything that worried him. He’d been in churches, he’d had crosses pressed to his skin, Heaven... he’d even felt Holy Water burn its way through his hand, crunching and sizzling as it gnawed through muscle and bone and soul alike. So this, in comparison... registered at a dull 5 out of 10 on his personal pain scale. There was something comforting about it that shouldn’t have been—the way Aziraphale worked to repair the splits in Crowley’s bond with his corporation. It was like getting stitches or putting salve on a burn—immeasurably uncomfortable at first, but followed by a relief that came of knowing that with every deft movement, every brush of Aziraphale’s divine essence, he was _healing. _ That there was light at the end of this tunnel, that the pain, no matter if it got worse first, was slowly but surely receding. 

It ached, Aziraphale’s ministrations. With every brush of healing energy, Crowley could feel himself being anchored just a bit more, but as if with thousands of tiny needles. Divine acupuncture, he found himself thinking with numb amusement. He’d been hurting for months; twitching uncontrollably, muscles seizing up into excruciating Charlie horses that just ebbed and ebbed. He felt off-kilter, like his ethereal form was the inner workings of a Russian nesting doll, and it was all wrong and twisted, making the outer shell just that— a shell. And finally, _finally_, he was getting some traction, some relief.

Which was why it surprised him so terribly when the level 5 pain suddenly ratcheted instantly up to a 20. His head pounded, and he became unbelievably dizzy. Not physically, but_ ethereally. _ He felt like he was spiraling down... maybe up? The word ‘pain’ ceased to describe what he was feeling, he was so beyond it. Screams wouldn’t do, recoiling wouldn’t do. It was everywhere, all over him, all around him, and a creeping darkness began to sink into his metaphysical core. Not a darkness that signified loss of consciousness, technically his ethereal form couldn’t lose consciousness. It wasn’t even the capital Darkness that signified his descent into Hell, his encroaching discorporation.

It was true darkness; the nothingness that awaited the mortal souls of demons. The approach of a real and terrifying End.

He simply acted. His demonic core flooded against Aziraphale, forcing him back. Somewhere, hidden behind layers and layers of panic, Crowley’s rational mind wished to protect the angel, to warn him, to plead with him. Forming words past an unfathomable need to scream was an effort of Herculean proportions, but something managed to worm its way through the rising tide of darkness.

_“Something’s wrong. Get out, angel, now!” _

_“Alright, but just allow me to—”_

The darkness seemed to grow stronger with Aziraphale’s voice, creeping over Crowley’s consciousness and giving him the occult version of narrowing tunnel vision. He clung to that one point of light at the end, the one thing that had and always would anchor him—Aziraphale.

_“No, angel, now!” _ he screamed into the darkness, hurtling himself down the metaphysical tunnel toward the angel and violently pushing him out.

He thought, after what he’d just gone through, that he was prepared for whatever would happen upon returning, alone, to his full corporation.

He was so, _so_ wrong.

He felt like live bait, a hook skewered through his brain and just _tearing him in half_ with the rush of water that yanked and pulled at him. Every movement was agony, every thought nauseating. He wanted to scream, but the moment his lips opened, the moment his tongue moved, he felt like his organs lit on fire and erupted forth. He was beginning to feel delirious, wishing beyond existence that he was capable of passing out. But that kind of relief was for human bodies, that kind of self-preservation was a byproduct of being _human. _

He registered something familiar, a sound... Aziraphale? But the sound only spiked through his ailing psyche and made him want..._ need_ to throw up again.

He felt a pressure, knew that it should register as a touch in the vicinity of _shoulder_, but it felt like red hot pokers driving through the back of his skull, through his brain, and embedding into the backs of his eyes.

He heard a scream, wasn’t sure if it was his own. He couldn’t find his senses, couldn’t line them up right. Where did hearing go? Which slot did taste fall into? Was he supposed to feel anything but this burning? He couldn’t remember...

“Crowley, please talk to me, _what’s wrong?” _

Aziraphale. That’s Aziraphale. Answer him. _Answer him. Work out your own bloody tongue and answer him! _

He tried, he really did. But the moment his tongue moved, he felt that rising bile in his stomach, the overwhelming nausea. So he reached out with something he could currently access—his demonic power. It seemed to be the writer, director, and star of this particular horror film at the moment.

He wasn’t sure what he found, be it a television, radio, or Hell, some random passerby. But he tossed his thoughts into it desperately.

“Too much...” he said, faintly registering the electronic buzzing of his voice. “We did... too much.” He struggled to put the words together, his mind overwhelmed so badly that he was basically picking them out of a barrel and hoping they were in the right order. “Feel myself...”  
He struggled to pick out a word that wasn’t a massive understatement. There didn’t seem to exist any words, that he knew of, to explain what he was feeling. It felt like one part of him had been nailed down and the rest of him was whipping about viciously in the wind, waiting for his flesh, his _soul_ to give out.

“Fading,” was the only word he happened to snatch from the bedlam, and it was wrong. Too weak.

He’d been recalled back to Hell before, been smited by angels. It felt akin to that, but with no destination, no certainty, _no end. _

He was fairly certain he was crying, but didn’t register the sensation, didn’t feel it on his skin.

“Freezing, burning,” he whimpered, wondering absently if Aziraphale might know how to make it stop, might glean any information from his rambling, or if he was just babbling incoherently. “Both... _neither.” _

He could hear Aziraphale speaking, distantly aware being asked questions, even more distantly aware of attempting to answer them.

He considered attempting to sleep. He’d had to train himself to sleep, long ago. Since his ethereal form technically never lost consciousness, he’d had to figure out how to let his _body_ do it—sending his true form into a suspended kind of sensory deprivation and pendulous thought. But sensory deprivation really only worked when his ethereal form was what he was retreating into. Currently, it was the part of him in pain, it was the part of him he wished to retreat from. And that... simply couldn’t be done.

He was aware of something shifting in the periphery of his awareness, still unable to open his eyes... or perhaps they were open and he just wasn’t getting the information... like a short-circuited wire somewhere...

And then it happened—his anchor, that steady pressure he hadn’t realized was there, constant and heavy and... all he was clinging to... suddenly began to draw back, out of his ability to hold onto it, out of his aura. _Aziraphale... _

He frantically poured every ounce of will he possessed into his corporation, reaching for hands, reaching for fingers, reaching for anything he could use to scramble after his angel. When he found it, he registered violently flinging his hand out to grasp in the direction of the retreating light, latching on with everything he had left.

“Don’t go!” he begged. If there wasn’t an end in sight, then the only balm he could hold onto, the only reassurance available... was that he wasn’t alone. That Aziraphale was out there, somewhere in the space around him that he couldn’t perceive, by his side. “Stay... _please...” _

He felt Aziraphale settle next to him, and it calmed his nerves enough to begin attempting something... _anything_ to make it manageable. He retreated back from his corporation once more, coiling tightly against his demonic core, certain that his body had simply gone slack, likely worrying the angel. But at the moment he couldn’t detect his ability to care. Cowering as he was deep within himself, the pain receded. Or at least it was masked. He didn’t know how long he’d have to stay like this, but was prepared to do so for quite some time. At least it was safe, at least it was comfortably numb.


	21. The South Downs, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is left alone while Crowley rests, and he... dithers. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> A note: Aziraphale grooms Crowley's wings without his consent. I've made mention that wing grooming/touching is one of the most intimate acts that can be done for ethereal/occult beings. So I suppose there is some dubious consent going on, but in this context, I see it more as caretaking; like a washcloth for someone with a fever, soup for someone who is sick. I don't find it a violation, considering the intent is to take care, (and also knowing that Crowley likely would have said yes anyway) but I also explicitly know that intent does not equal consent. So if anyone feels that I've inaccurately tagged this chapter, please let me know, and I will warn for it.

Aziraphale tried not to panic when Crowley’s body went completely limp, draping down over Aziraphale’s legs like a comfy winter blanket, despite his ability to still perceive the demon’s withdrawn aura hiding well within the confines of his corporation. Still, it was difficult not to panic; like dropping some piece of glassware, seeing that it hasn’t shattered, but suffering that minor bit of _oh God, it_ could _have._

Aziraphale pulled Crowley against him, the only thing keeping him from descending into complete despair being the tiny, dull light of Crowley’s aura, burning faintly within him like a far-off lighthouse through the fog.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, unable to strengthen his wavering voice. “I’m so, so sorry, my dear. You should have told me, told me it was too much. You’re always trying to be too strong, Crowley. You don’t have to do that anymore, please, if not for your sake, do it for me. Stop trying to be so strong all the time...”

Aziraphale stroked a hand against the demon’s hair, finding himself in a position all too familiar and all too common these days; helpless, _useless, _ he felt, and worrying over a very wounded demon, with thoughts of how he would handle it, how he would _go on_ if something _permanent_ were to happen.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he stayed, sitting uncomfortably on the wood floor, an unconscious Crowley pulled to his chest, but the longer it went, the more Aziraphale could hear the little Crowley-tinted voice in his head.

_What, you’re just going to sit there like a lump on a log while your buttocks falls asleep? You’re the angel of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale. Get off the floor. _

Aziraphale smiled affectionately, letting his weight fall to one side so that he could continue to delicately hold Crowley as he curled his legs awkwardly beneath himself and pushed to his feet.

Crowley was light; his sharp angles and lean muscle reminiscent of a snake even in this form. Thus, carrying him like a bride (for lack of a better reference, of course) was no difficult task. He had to shuffle a bit, though, because Crowley’s wings hung limply beneath his prone body, his primaries crumpling and dragging the floor, and the curve of the bones knocked against the angel’s knees as he moved. But once he got the hang of leading with his toes, to avoid stepping on the feathers, he easily located the single bedroom on the front corner of the house. The layout was a simple, single-level ranch consisting of open living room, dining room, kitchen, and one bedroom with attached master bathroom.

After struggling for a frankly humiliating amount of time to maneuver the demon onto the bed without bending or hyperextending his ebony wings, Aziraphale huffed and miracled Crowley onto his side, wings laid gently flared out behind him, so he wouldn’t awaken to a cramp in them.

Aziraphale took a moment to pause, simply watching his lifeless friend. Crowley’s chest was not rising and falling as it did when he slept, his eyes not wildly moving behind his lids as he dreamed. It increasingly gave the angel the impression of death; so much so that he found himself fleeing the room to set his mind to... something, _anything. _

First, he explored the quaint little cottage and all its quirks and contents. As he’d said, it was a bit too “little old lady living her best floral life” for his tastes, but at least it was homely and welcoming. He used a quick miracle to place all the furniture back into its original arrangement, the floral-printed couch making a loud _thud_ as its cherry wood legs hit the fringed pastel area rug in the center of the living room. Perhaps because it made a vacation rental more appealing, there was the Telly mounted on the wall, but the seating arrangement was angled more toward centering around the large, stone-encased fireplace. This was something the older generations currently favored, and it was one Aziraphale shared—focusing more on gathering for conversation rather than for entertainment. Although, in Aziraphale’s case, those two came hand-in-hand.

His heart fluttered at the thought—_Crowley, drunkenly rambling in the bookshop’s back room on some topic or another, hands swinging about like inflatable advertising balloons and knocking knick knacks and books asunder. _

In an effort, yet again, to extricate thoughts of the demon from his worried mind, Aziraphale found himself loitering in the kitchen.

Crowley’s little voice in his head spoke up again, dripping affectionate sarcasm like rainwater from palm leaves.

_Just gonna stand there, then? Tea’s not gonna make itself, angel. _

With a righteous huff, Aziraphale busied himself by curiously checking cabinets, finding a collection of biscuits and snacks, assorted china and flatware, and an impressive selection of teas.

He set the kettle on, staring out the small window above the sink, a pair of obnoxiously floral curtains draped appealingly to either side of the four-paned glass. Out on the gravel driveway, the Bentley sat, and if he hadn’t known any better, Aziraphale would say that it had shimmied anxiously closer to the front door, like a child curious as to what’s going on on the other side of a door that contained whispering adults.

The angel distractedly made his tea, admiring the hand-painted tiles that lined the backsplash of the kitchen counters, each one depicting a rustic incarnation of farm animals; roosters, sheep, cows, hens and their eggs.

He smiled at the care that had obviously been put into this place—with only one bedroom, it obviously hadn’t been a family home. But perhaps it had been an elderly married couple. She, painting her little tiles, perhaps sewing the curtains and throw pillows. He, tending the gardens, both out front and out back, and ensuring not a single rock of the driveway was out of place. Maybe working on the engine of an old but faithfully reliable pickup truck. And at the end of the day, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with each other at the little iron table in the rear garden, tea in hand, watching the blending blues, oranges, and reds of a sunset over the water.

Aziraphale smiled at the comfort the little fantasy brought him, but it was short lived, as he looked down to find that he had, simply on instinct, made two cups of tea. One with nothing but a lemon slice, one with cream and two sugars.

He felt a weight in his chest at the sight, but an even heavier one at the thought of pouring one down the drain. So he left it, sad and solitary on the counter, and took his own to the sliding rear door, pushing it open once more and breathing in of the rain now beginning to patter lightly on the flowering plants in the garden. The raindrops intermittently hit the iron table and chairs, sending a beautiful chiming hum through the din of rainfall and rolling thunder.

Like a sudden punch to the gut, a vicious bit of déjà vu hit him—

_A similar setup. A garden before him, all of Creation beyond it. Storm clouds gathering and rumbling their warnings over the desert. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” _

Aziraphale shook his head to ward off the image, shutting the door in a huff and turning back to the interior of the cottage.

A gramophone, there, just past the couch against the wall, a book case on one side, an antique glass-front display case showing off a variety of Faberge eggs on the other.

Aziraphale set his tea carefully in the saucer on one of the bookshelves, kneeling to thumb through the rustic wooden box of records beneath the gramophone. He scrunched his nose at most of the options, eventually settling on a Billie Holiday and sliding it delicately from the sleeve. He normally preferred symphonies—Mozart, Bach, the other Bach—because they were easiest to read to. He found that if he could hear words, no matter the language1, he would find himself attempting to do both and comprehending neither. But, this would have to do.

The jazz starlet’s “All of Me” provided a nice little distraction from the slowly mounting pound of rain outside, and Aziraphale retrieved his tea from the shelf and began perusing the books.

They weren’t organized in any manner the angel could discern, and they consisted mainly of dime store romance novels, but he grinned to himself at a few of the more recognizable titles, their spines faded and creased from loving use; The Great Gatsby, The Giver, The Catcher in the Rye.

Billie caught his attention once more, crooning through the storm “there is nothing left for me to save...”

And suddenly the song was warping, changing, speeding up and getting louder in the angel’s mind...

_“Each night I cry I still believe the lie _  
_I love you 'till I die_  
_Save me, save me, oh save me...” _

Aziraphale jerked, his cup clanging against the saucer as he looked accusingly at the vinyl spinning slowly around on the player.

It played accusingly back at him, Billie (not Freddie) serenading him with a drawled “why not take all of me, can't you see? I'm no good without you...”

Letting out a groan of pure frustration, Aziraphale set his tea none-too-gently back onto the bookshelf, and stormed back into the bedroom.

Of course, Crowley hadn’t moved, which was disheartening to Aziraphale, despite knowing that Crowley was trying to withdraw from everything in an effort to lessen his pain. Somehow, Aziraphale had hoped that whatever time had passed would have been enough.

He sighed as he walked further into the room, peering past the demon to a slightly gaudy golden analog clock on the bedside table, finding the hands pointing dauntingly at 6:22pm.

They had arrived at noon, and he doubted it had even been an hour since they’d pulled apart, which meant he’d been sharing Crowley’s corporation for around five hours, give or take. That was an awfully long time for Crowley to be exposed to raw, divine essence. 

Aziraphale made a note to take precautions when they tried again; set alarms in the cottage in the hopes one of them would hear them, keep checking in with Crowley on how he was feeling, no matter how much the demon protested and said he was “fine.”

But for now, Crowley needed to rest and recover. And Aziraphale had tried distracting himself. It hadn’t worked.

He pursed his lips, deciding to try again, but this time without leaving Crowley’s side.

Pushing his sleeves back up to his elbows, he approached the opposite side of the bed, shuffling forward until he found Crowley’s raven-black wings at his knees, the long, delicate metacarpus bone resting at his thigh.

His wings were, to put it lightly, a complete mess. Pins stood up in numerous places, the down near his back was ruffled and matted, and every primary bore gaps.

He knew Crowley wouldn’t likely allow him to preen or even touch them were he conscious, but... he had to do something, busy himself somehow. And being away from Crowley hadn’t gone well. So... this was his option. And if Crowley wished to scold him upon waking, then Aziraphale would gladly let him.

He set in on the downy scapulars, raking his fingernails through them gently, often coming away with a few tiny, loose feathers. He moved in long, sweeping motions, following the grain of the feathers to the tips, settling the pins and barbs, removing more loose ones as he went along—lesser coverts, wrapping about the bone, tertials, median coverts. He spent a bit of extra time massaging through the hefty muscle clusters gathered at the joint, even though Crowley wasn’t awake to enjoy it. Something about... good for circulation, Aziraphale reasoned to himself.

He found himself grinning stupidly as he reached the primaries, proud of how impeccable they were beginning to look. He placed the first, shortest primary between his pointer and middle finger, marveling for a moment at the strength of it, despite its haggard appearance, before slowly dragging them the entire length of the feather, settling the vanes. He almost giggled as they passed over the webbing of his hand, tickling a bit, but was able to stifle it as he beheld the beauty of a now flawless feather falling back to rest amongst the others.

With a smooth, sweeping motion, he attended to all twelve primaries of the left wing, then moved on to the right, holding the left up gently and reveling at the sheen that the oils of his hands had left. It was like slick on the surface of the ocean—reflecting tiny rainbows of color in the highlights as the light moved across them.

He grinned, lowering the left wing back to rest atop the other, and scooted back off the bed. The ache in his legs alerted him first that more time had passed than he’d been aware of, and he peered back at the clock, now in almost total darkness. 9:32pm.

He sighed, having only let time get away from him like this when reading a good book, and he noted with some amusement, that preening Crowley’s wings was a strikingly similar activity—something new and exciting, and on some level, forbidden. Not by Crowley, per se, even though he hadn’t been awake to discuss it, but by divine and infernal norms. In the past, the thought of touching a demon’s wings would have been violently objectionable by both parties.

Now it... it felt like cracking open a new book, seeing, _really seeing_ its contents, and _understanding._ The feeling of Crowley’s feathers in his palm felt more intimate than any form of physical affection the humans showed one another—the holding of hands, the kissing of lips. It was the most vulnerable an ethereal being could be. Aziraphale made a mental note to address the topic with Crowley when he woke.

For now, though... Aziraphale shuffled around to Crowley’s side of the bed, pulling up a chair from the corner, and sitting so close that his knees brushed the bed.

He sighed, clicking on the small lamp on the bedside table, which spilled honey-colored light across Crowley’s expressionless features, his hunched and unmoving shoulders, his now flawless and simply gorgeous wings. His hands—long, spindle-like fingers lightly curled where they rested on the (of course) floral bedspread.

He reached out, pausing to consider for a moment, but ultimately kept on, considering he’d just touched a much more intimate part of the demon than his hand.

He took Crowley’s right hand very delicately in his own, handling it like a baby bird fallen from the nest. He let the demon’s limp fingers rest softly in his palm, curling his thumb up between Crowley’s thumb and pointer finger, beginning to run it back and forth over the knuckles and soft pad of the back of his hand.

He settled, keeping Crowley’s hand cradled safely in his own, and the words just spilled out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1as angels can understand all of them2  
2speak them well is a completely other matter
> 
> ... yo dawg, I heard you like footnotes, so I put a footnote in your footnote


	22. The South Downs, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley overhears something he probably wasn't meant to. Tenderness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mostly Gen, but probably Teen+  
For one brief mention of suicidal thoughts

When consciousness returned to Crowley, he felt like he’d been hit by a truck. But, a metaphysical truck. It didn’t hurt in a bodily sense, but instead felt like the weight of galaxies was resting firmly on his ability to _be_, to _exist._

He was vaguely aware that he was still withdrawn deep within his corporation, coiled around his demonic core like... well, like a very unhappy snake.

Tentatively, he began to uncoil, attempting to contact the farthest reaches of himself, to return to all the corners and limbs. He immediately regretted it, feeling as though every tendril of himself had been plunged into boiling hot water. It singed, and he snapped back to coil around himself, accepting the psychic soreness that came with knowing he wouldn’t be able to do it much longer. He’d have to let go eventually, return to his corporation, no matter how badly it burned. This retreat was like holding a chin-up, or a push-up; the longer he held it, the closer he got to collapsing. Returning to sleep wasn’t an option, either. The pins and needles of keeping himself so small was jabbing at him like a rock on the mattress.

He tested the limits again, yet again yanking back when the pain that met him came like a shock to the system. With an ethereal sigh of sorts, he decided to simply try and access just a few of his senses.

It was like rising from the deep of the ocean; a pressure falling on him as he surfaced, growing and growing until it was almost unbearable. But with an uncomfortable _pop_, he was able to hear again.

The first thing he was able to discern was rain. It was relaxing and slow, and sounded as if it was hitting several melodic things at once; the tiled roof, soft leaves, gravel walkways, something metal... a bit like a symphony whose conductor has taken a pee break.

The rustle of fabric, perhaps. It sounded like a flag in the wind, whipping and brushing occasionally against itself in a soft but soothing rhythm. Open curtains, maybe?

Beneath the cacophony of those things, a song—smooth and delicate. Jazz? Something an old Carey Grant film would have played in a penultimate pub scene involving the leading lady rapidly blinking her bedroom eyes...

He didn’t want to feel his whole body, but he could identify something... something soft and comforting and warm. His hand? It was... being held... no, _caressed. _ It was like that first rush of endorphins when flopping onto a plush mattress, like being cocooned in a blanket fresh out of the dryer. Back and forth, across the back of his hand, steady and grounding. Like an anchor keeping him from floating away on the tempest.

Then, sudden and frightening but incredibly welcome; a voice, _Aziraphale’s voice_, speaking in that same low, muted hum he used when he was skimming a newspaper article and searching out the key words. The voice he sometimes used when he’d reached one of his favorite passages in one of his favorite books—the one that sprang forth unbidden when he’d previously been reading silently to himself but just couldn’t contain his enthusiasm for the words. The voice he used to recite beloved lines in a play but didn’t wish to disturb the audience around him. It was the voice of his passion; a passion Heaven told him was inappropriate and unseemly. A passion that, despite knowing it was frowned upon, he was powerless to contain. And Crowley knew its marks like the back of his own hand, like the interior of the Bentley.

“...like Aristotle loved learning, like Galileo loved the stars, like Shakespeare and his words. It burns me, my dear, physically burns me, sometimes... to look at you. Those golden eyes of yours, that you despise, that you hide, that you insist are a curse handed down directly from God.”

Crowley recoiled again as he realized what he had intruded on... would Aziraphale want him hearing this? Was he only saying these things, _confessing_ these things because he thought he couldn’t be heard?

Crowley wanted to pull away, he truly did. But he also _yearned_ to hear them. If anything could be blamed for his downfall, for his personality, Heaven, for _everything he was... _ it was curiosity. And once again, he succumbed to its drowning force.

“And perhaps it was, but... they couldn’t be more perfect, my dear, there is nothing more radiant that I’ve ever found myself gazing at. Like one watches flames, like one watches a car crash. Terrifying but infinitely captivating, mystifying... _humbling. _ Maybe that’s the crutch of that particular God-given enigma; not a curse on you but a gift to me. Something to remind me to stop and appreciate the wildness of life, to remind me to stoke those flames of rebelliousness within me, not squelch them.

“And I deluded myself for so long, I think, into just... toting the party line. ‘You can’t like a demon, he can’t like you, you shouldn’t enjoy one another’s company, shouldn’t delight in the way he laughs, in the way he shows restraint, his little mischiefs. You can’t... love him’.”

Aziraphale paused for a very long time, the only sound the delicate brush of his thumb over Crowley’s hand. Crowley, for all his effort, was stunned still like he’d taken 50,000 volts straight to the temple. Which, in a way, he had.

“And for some... _idiotic_ reason, I accepted it. I mean, I knew... deep down. I knew that I didn’t believe what they said, but I let you think that I did, and that’s... that’s my crime, my dear, and in a way, it’s so much worse. I let you think you were alone. I let you think that you were just a convenience to me. I hurt you so badly, over so many years, and I...”

Shockingly, a sniffle. And his voice broke, beginning to shake as he continued.

“I knew all along that losing you would destroy me. So many times it came so close to happening, and I came so close to admitting to myself. But then you’d always make your miraculous escapes... _wily Serpent.” _

A bittersweet chuckle.

“And every time, I would fall back into my comfort zone. ‘Good angels don’t love demons. To be a good angel, you must deny what you’re feeling.’ But you just kept prodding at all those denials, pulling me from that comfort zone time and again, and yet you were so gentle with me. You never did anything that threatened my delusion, never tempted me to anything dangerous for me. And it’s...”

Another, stronger sniffle. The sounds of outright crying.

_No, angel... please don’t cry... _ Crowley thought desperately to himself, his barely conscious mind wandering suddenly to a quote from one of his favorite books. _Don’t cry. If you have become human enough to cry, then all the magic in the world cannot change you back. _

But then again... what was so wrong about becoming human enough to cry? It meant you had something... _someone_ to cry for...

“You were far better to me than I ever was to you. You were _good, Crowley. So good. _ And I know you won’t let me say that to you, _about you. _ But my dear, you’re one of His most unfathomable creations, a creature of such unending grace and curiosity and beauty that I think, perhaps, you had to fall. You were too pure for us. You would have made them all look bad—”

Another bitter laugh.

“And I’m so sorry that I still can’t say these words to you when you can properly hear them, but... it frightens me. To look in your unnerving, beautiful eyes and say these things. It bares me to the bone, to the soul, to whatever resides at the center of everything I am. To admit that a demon could be... so damned good. It threatens everything I’ve known... well... believed, for six thousand years. Although, at this point... let’s face it, I’m not sure I’ve believed as strongly as I should have done for quite a while now. And to admit that what I believed was wrong, to admit that everything I’ve held as fact for _so long_... could be _wrong_... oh, it frightens me. Because if I was wrong about that, what else have I been wrong about, what else have I been deluded into thinking true...

“But it’s not just that, it’s... to know that, if you were to hear them, that if they were to scare you away, to be too much for you... that you could pull away from me, and... well, you see, that’s the most terrifying thing. You’re part of me now. If my name were to appear in a dictionary, I couldn’t be defined without you. I’m like a great machine, my dear, that can’t function without... well, like a car without a key, like flames without fuel. Like the great expanse of stars, a monstrous wonder to behold, and yet no eyes to perceive them...

“If I lost you, I...”

Another pause, and a heartbreaking sob. A dejected sniff.

“I would lose myself. And I... well, I’ve never... thought...”

Another long pause and a shuddering breath.

“I’d never really considered harming myself before, but when I think about existing... _with no you... I...I...” _

The weight of a million galaxies collided with Crowley’s consciousness, and suddenly he couldn’t bear it, physically couldn’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence, couldn’t allow it to be spoken.

He flung himself outward, never mind the agony, never mind the dizziness, never mind not knowing which way to “eyeballs,” which way to “hands and feet.” He simply erupted, coming out of it like hurtling down an enclosed slide—each twist and turn a frightening surprise but eventually depositing him on the other side.

The first thing he registered was the sizzling pain in every nerve in his body, but that had been expected, so he shoved it aside. He was vaguely aware that he had tried to speak, as one does coming out of a dream—knowing that they were talking in their sleep but unsure if they’d said words or just unintelligible noises.

What it was _supposed_ to be was a defiant and resounding “no!”

A moment passed in which Crowley was suspended like a puppet, staving off his pain and waiting for the strings to sever.

“Crowley?”

Everything slammed back together, and Crowley felt his whole body jerk, a sound of discomfort leaving his slightly numb lips.

The pressure on his hand vanished, and for a moment he almost screamed at its absence, but suddenly it was on his forehead, brushing his hair back gently.

“My dear, can you hear me?”

Crowley rightly groaned this time, attempting to begin testing his limbs. A searing pain like dragging knives went up every finger, every toe, shooting up his limbs and into his spine.

The sound he made was pathetic and he refused to acknowledge he’d made it.

“Oh, no, don’t move.”

Crowley dared to open his eyes, the light immediately blinding and hot. He blinked frantically against it, determined to find Aziraphale, determined that if he didn’t, he might rocket right past this plane of existence into something else entirely.

The angel was a dark blur before him, one arm coming forward and looping gently behind Crowley’s shoulder. The point of contact stung for a moment, but as it moved back and forth soothingly, Crowley found it immensely comforting.

“There, now. Coming to?”

Crowley tried to smile at the angel’s paternal treatment, but felt that he only managed a slight lip twitch. He could feel himself beginning to settle back into his corporation a bit, suddenly very aware of the locations where Aziraphale had worked his healing—like stitches, or staples.

He tried to move again, this time stretching out his muscles like he did upon waking from a deathlike sleep. Everything protested, everything _ached_, but at least it moved. The satisfaction that came with stretching was a welcome feeling, momentarily overriding the pain. He felt something extra stretch out, hearing the flutter of feathers at the same time that he recognized the familiar tingle—his wings were out.

He opened his eyes once more, this time able to keep them open but slightly squinted against the very yellow light of a lamp.

The light made Aziraphale’s blonde hair even more vivid, and it cast shadows over the worry lines of his face, which were many as he leaned in close, his hand still moving against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” he said, obviously aiming for cheery but instead achieving a kind of questioning worry. As if to say ‘is it a good morning?? You tell me.’

Crowley lifted his head from a very plush pillow, the effort feeling Herculean, peering over his shoulders to look at his wings where they draped on the bed. The room spun a bit as he did, as if he’d drank several bottles the night before, and he grunted as he let his head fall back to the pillow with a dull _poof. _

“Wings r’out,” he managed, his voice sounding ragged and strained.

“Yes, yes, you... that happened when...” Aziraphale trailed off, looking guilty.

Crowley flexed his wings a bit, finding them light and airy. Much more so than he recalled them being...

“Did... did you...” he began, fluttering them again and testing the theory. Yes, they felt _wonderful. _

Aziraphale looked monstrously guilty, breaking the eye contact, leaning back in his chair, and removing his hand from Crowley’s shoulder to fiddle with his jumper. “Yes. I... I do hope you’re not too cross with me, I really should have asked, but I was so worried about you, my dear, I just couldn’t... bring myself to... well, to...”

“Quit fussing, s’fine,” Crowley grumbled, feeling a fiery sting at the back of his throat. “Quite nice, actually,” he finished, focusing a not insubstantial amount of power into hiding his wings away.

Dizziness came over him again as he did, and he groaned.

“Oh, Crowley, are you alright? What can I do, is there _anything_ I can do? I feel simply _awful...” _

“Not your fault, angel,” Crowley said, fighting to stay conscious as the dizziness became worse. He tested his lips, working his jaw uncomfortably and tasting the air with his forked tongue. It felt like the Sahara had taken up residence in his molars.

“Water?” he asked weakly, hissing at the acrid taste of dry mouth.

He blinked to find Aziraphale already holding a glass of ice water, motioning to Crowley’s shoulder in the typical ‘sit up’ gesture.

The first try was a no-go, with a spasm rocketing up Crowley’s lower back and making him collapse back, head colliding against the headboard with a loud _thud. _

Aziraphale quickly deposited the glass of water on the nightstand, pulling Crowley’s shoulder up with one hand and sliding several pillows behind him for support with the other.

“Better?” Aziraphale tutted worriedly, watching with a hawk’s intensity as Crowley took the water and brought it to his lips with a trembling hand.

The relief that came with the crisp liquid washing over his parched mouth was equally matched by an uncomfortable sting, flowing all the way down his throat and making him cough uncontrollably for a moment.

Aziraphale took the water to avoid any spillage, and looked very much like he might combust with worry.

“S’alright, angel. I’m fine. Bit worse for wear, but... m’okay,” he said, his words still slurring as if he was drunk. In fact the room was also spinning as if he was drunk. Except it was missing that fun “actually drunk” bit.

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “Crowley, _why didn’t you tell me?! _ I could have stopped, we have all the time—”

“It wasn’t like that, Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked, reaching for the water again. He sipped delicately to avoid the coughing fit and was rewarded with only a minor burn. “It wasn’t like I slowly approached some kind of limit, like my tolerance to you slowly wore away. That’s what I was _expecting_, but... it just clicked. One moment I was alright, uncomfortable but alright, and the next minute I was plummeting over some... _cliff_, oblivion rising to meet me. If I’d known it was coming, I would have warned you, I really would. But... I didn’t know...”

Aziraphale inhaled hard, held it, then let it out slowly as he nodded.

“Well,” he said, reaching out to where Crowley’s free hand rested on the bedspread, and pausing. He looked up to Crowley, then smiled with such genuine _care_ that Crowley had to look away, and took the demon’s hand. “Next time, I’m setting timers, or something. So this never happens again.”

“Timers?” Crowley asked with amusement, happy to feel his own lips draw into a smile. “I’m not a boiled egg, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to be affronted at the flippant joke, but his face couldn’t be bothered to form anything but the fondest of grins.

It fell rather quickly as he looked down at Crowley’s hand, his fingers moving across in an achingly familiar way.

“My dear, your skin is cold as ice...”

At that, Crowley pulled aside the constant veil of pain he’d been so diligently ignoring, finding that yes, Aziraphale was right; his corporation was positively frigid.

He supposed it made sense; that was just another part of being the Serpent of Eden—another bloody _blessing_ from God. No thermoregulation. He usually dedicated a steady flow of demonic power to regulating his body temperature, but seeing as how he hadn’t been actively _in_ his body for an indiscriminate amount of time...

He couldn’t help the shiver at the realization, and he rearranged on the bed quickly to disguise it. Aziraphale would worry... well, worry _more_ if he saw a shiver.

“I am, a bit,” he admitted, scooting further down on the pillows and setting the water on the nightstand. Before he’d even begun to think about tucking himself up to pull the covers out from under his bum, he found himself beneath them, blanching at their hideous design.

“Ugh, angel, these are positively _dismal_,” he joked, running a hand over the wildly repetitive floral comforter.

Aziraphale chuckled fondly. “I’ll make you some tea, warm you right up.”

With that, he was gone from the room, leaving Crowley to think of nothing but what he’d heard. It was pretty clear, what he’d missed there at the beginning.

_“I love you. And not like an angel’s designed to do, no. Like a human does, with all their heart, with every fiber of their God-given being... like Aristotle loved learning, like Galileo loved the stars, like Shakespeare and his words.” _

Crowley smiled as Aziraphale returned with an obviously miracled cup of tea.

“Oh, I was ever so worried, there for a minute...” he said, handing over the tea and sitting once more in the chair beside the bed.

Crowley took a sip, delighting in the way he could track the warmth as it spread through him on the way down.

“I know, angel,” he said, replying to a different statement altogether. “Me too.”


	23. The South Downs, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's tired of feeling helpless, and Aziraphale dotes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

Aziraphale could sense Crowley about to speak before he ever heard the words. It was like an approaching wind in the forest; trees far off rustling and swaying in a quickly impending wave.

_“Time, angel.”_

_“Is it?” _ he thought back absently, beginning to wrap up the bit of healing he was working on. If he’d learned anything in the last week, it was that deadlines were key. Too far past it, and they would have a repeat of the first time. _“Two hours goes by so quickly, like this.”_

Crowley didn’t respond; he was usually drained beyond limits by the end of one of their sessions. But Aziraphale could tell he _wanted_ to respond. It was like a strange, occult hug—Crowley’s thought process stalking about, encircling Aziraphale and occasionally slipping against him and affording him a glimpse inside, before quickly retreating. He tried not to peek too much, but it wasn’t as if he’d walked into a room he wasn’t meant to be in—able to quickly close his eyes and avoid seeing anything. It was more like being dropped headfirst in a pool—completely surrounded, with the only way out to claw your way through it. In the last week, he’d seen some things he appreciated (Crowley’s fond collection of bookshop memories, his affinity for French reds, his very pure adoration of his Bentley and, on more than one occasion, extreme fondness for Aziraphale himself. Dare he even say... more than fond? No, couldn’t possibly. Demons weren’t capable). He’d also seen some things he wished he hadn’t, and wouldn’t ever tell Crowley he’d seen; intimate moments, not just with Penny (though those were the most recent), horridly rude comments to greenery, the trauma of a burning bookshop, and a few blood-boiling memories of Hell’s punishments over the millennia. Things Crowley kept locked away for a reason. But when his subconscious was laid bare all around Aziraphale like a minefield... it was difficult to tread lightly.

_“Coming out now, dear, brace yourself,”_ he said gently, aiming for the tunneling darkness that signified his way out. He felt Crowley recoil away from him and, though he’d felt it every day for a week, still wasn’t used to that—Crowley pulling away from him in fear. It felt so unnatural. The last thing on Earth or elsewhere he wanted to be to Crowley was a source of fear. He knew it wasn’t voluntary, but merely a byproduct of their diametrically opposed natures, but... it didn’t sit right.

With a dizzying spiral of self and consciousness, Aziraphale found himself returned to his own body, slumped in the chair next to the bed. He straightened, squirming a bit and rolling his shoulders as he settled back into his corporation.

Crowley jolted on the bed before him, inhaling hard and grabbing fistfuls of the comforter beneath him. His skin was sallow, every inch of him drenched in sweat, and he shook like a leaf—as he had done every time they shared a corporation. He took several gulping breaths before settling into a more rhythmic pant.

“Never get used to that,” he croaked, letting his head fall back onto the pillow and releasing his balled-up fists. They’d been at this twice a day for five days now, so they’d fallen into a routine, of sorts, but it never got any easier. And it was keeping Crowley dangerously weak—completely powerless and barely even able to move after. He’d usually sleep just long enough to wake for the second go.

“Alright, though?” Aziraphale asked worriedly, gesturing with a hand and miracling a cool, damp rag. He leaned forward, feeling a little dizzy himself, before wiping at the heated skin of Crowley’s forehead and neck. The demon hummed in appreciation, slowly closing his eyes.

Aziraphale made to stand and leave Crowley to his rest, but the demon’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist with a squeeze of desperation. Aziraphale half-turned back, giving Crowley an inquisitive stare.

“Can’t... well, I... I don’t wanna be in here anymore. Been doing nothing but sleeping and suffering for a week, and I’m sick of lying in this bed like a useless sack of shit,” he said, his hand tightening slightly on Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Language, please, Crowley,” Aziraphale asked politely, but really only out of habit. Crowley had been through enough pain recently to last several human lifetimes, and if he wanted to cycle through every curse in existence, then Aziraphale was prepared to let him.

“Well... you’re really in no shape to...”

_“I don’t care, angel,” _ Crowley hissed, struggling to sit up but trying to disguise it by stretching languidly. It didn’t go beyond Aziraphale’s notice that he was still trembling slightly. “It’s too familiar, Aziraphale; trapped and... hurting, unable to move or fix anything. It’s _Hell_, and if I don’t get out... I don’t care if it’s to the bloody living room... _I may scream...” _

Crowley wasn’t usually one for confessing such things—he had an unyielding resilience to him that had hardly ever broken in 6000 years. And even if he was feeling overwhelmed, he certainly didn’t make it known—he stomped on it, covered it with dirt, and ignored it until it was time to stomp on it again. For this reason alone, Aziraphale simply nodded his agreement.

He sidled back between the chair and bed, holding a hand out to Crowley expectantly, who raised his eyebrows comically.

“I’m not an invalid, Aziraphale,” he said in a lighthearted tone as he slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit up. “I think I can handle stand—”

He rocked forward onto his feet, but seized up with a pained hiss upon putting his full weight on them. Aziraphale was barely able to get his hands beneath Crowley’s arms to catch him, and they both tumbled to their knees. Crowley probably hadn’t meant to, but he clung to Aziraphale as he steadied his breathing, leaning against Aziraphale’s chest and letting out an agonized noise.

“Guess I do need help...” he whimpered pitifully, and Aziraphale knew how difficult that was for Crowley to admit—not from any current indicators, but from 6000 years of watching the demon refuse to accept support.

“It’s alright. Just a little overexertion out of the gate. Nothing to fret over. Come on, to your feet,” Aziraphale said comfortingly. He pushed to his feet, maneuvering beneath one of Crowley’s arms and pulling him up with him. Crowley leaned on him, closing his eyes for an extended moment to quell whatever vertigo he was feeling.

“How does the garden sound, love?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly feeling his face flush as he realized what he’d called him. It had just bubbled up—‘my dear’ feeling too old, too much of a crutch... not affectionate enough for the level of comfort he’d been aiming for.

Normally, Crowley would have pounced on that nickname like a lion to prey, sarcasm and sass abounding. But this wasn’t normally, and Crowley wasn’t feeling himself.

He managed a weak grin, nodding sleepily.

“S’great, angel. Thanks.”

Aziraphale walked slowly, making sure Crowley matched his footsteps so he could continue to lean on him. Once out in the rear garden, and after a small skirmish with the sliding glass door, he bent to deposit Crowley in one of the wrought iron chairs with a groan.

The demon slumped back, sitting indecently as he always did, but there was an air of caution to it—like the slump was less for the aesthetic and more because he actually couldn’t sit up straight. He groaned, allowing his head to roll back and rest atop the back of the chair.

“Good? Comfy?” Aziraphale asked, his tone bordering on doting.

Crowley’s mischievous smile dared to peek through his exhaustion, but it didn’t spur him into anything more than a small nod.

“Jolly good. Be right back!” Aziraphale said, feeling a swell of caretaker’s fussiness overtaking him as he hurried into the cottage’s small kitchen.

On their third day in the cottage, as Crowley slept like the dead, Aziraphale had gone into the little nearby village to do some exploring, occupy himself, and perhaps pick up a few things to nibble. It hadn’t been the main reason, though. Mostly. Maybe.

He’d stopped by a delightful mom-and-pop bakery (all the shops were mom-and-pop, really), which boasted simply divine (he would forgive himself the comparison, this once) scones, flaky pastries, cream cakes, and biscuits. He’d purchased a wonderful assortment to take back to the cottage, but not before striking up a lively conversation with the two middle-aged women who ran the shop. One was a former lawyer who’d moved to the countryside to get away from the stress of it all, to do some stargazing and lower her blood pressure. The other had lived in this village her entire life, save for some post-Uni traveling abroad, and had found herself right back where she felt most at home—her mother’s bakery. The two of them found it therapeutic, baking together and serving up delights for the local townsfolk. And if they ever got the itch for a bit of nightlife, they’d simply pop up to London for a day or two; perhaps get a hotel room and make a weekend of it. They found it wonderfully removed, but just close enough to be exciting.

Liza and Margaret were their names, and Aziraphale had thanked them profusely as he gathered up his bag of treats and exited.

Next he’d stopped at the flower shop, his expectations for the shop-keep hovering around ‘slow but steady old man in worn but reliable coveralls.’

The lad who greeted him was an incredibly handsome young fellow from Lancashire, whose demeanor was reserved and quiet, but remarkably kind in his soft-spoken way.

“Afternoon, sir, welcome in,” he’d said, smiling so warmly that Aziraphale had taken a moment to consider if he was also an Earth-bound angel. “What brings you in today?”

Aziraphale had stuttered at that, as really his whole reason for perusing the town had been boredom. But, he supposed there probably was some subconscious reason lying around in there somewhere, so he went with it.

“A friend of mine... he’s laid up, feeling a bit ill, I’m afraid. He’s a mighty fine horticulturist; preferences leaning more toward vines and broad-leaf tropical plants. We’re just here... er, visiting, renting the old cottage at the end of the way, and I thought... a bit of home might... put his mind at ease.”

The boy, introducing himself as Samar, had led him to some smaller potted plants, one particular magnificent but juvenile Monstera Deliciosa, with an excited claim that “it’ll grow to be quite large, which you said he likes, but seeing as how you’ll need to transport it back to London with you when you leave, this will probably be best. A bit of home now, more of what he likes later!”

The shopkeep’s intuition warmed Aziraphale’s heart, and he simply took the boy’s suggestion and purchased the plant. It was a bit fumbling, carrying about a bag of sweets and an awkwardly shaped potted fern, but nothing a small miracle couldn’t help him with.

After that, he stopped by a small market for some fresh fruits, a delicatessen for some meats and cheeses, and the grocer for a collection of breakfast things. It ended up being so much that he’d had to simply miracle it all back to the cottage, but it was just as well. It afforded him the ability to walk back unencumbered, enjoying the views and a bit of people-watching (which was arguably one of his favorite pastimes).

He silently thanked himself for the errand, as he loitered in the kitchen fretting for some way to comfort an obviously struggling Crowley.

He eventually settled for cutting up some cheese and meat to make a sad, lacking charcuterie board, some tea, and a sliced apple (irony not going unnoticed). Again, it was too much to carry out to the garden, but he simply waved a hand and miracled it all to the iron table. As well as the potted plant.

“What’s all this, then?” Crowley asked, a hint of shocked fondness creeping into his weak and strained voice. His eyes roved over the selection, eventually abandoning the foodstuffs and landing on the plant.

“Don’t give me grief, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said with no real scolding in his tone. “Mucking about and watching you struggle has been... difficult for me, and I wanted a little something to make you feel more at home, more... comfortable. It seems we may be here for a while, with the healing such slow-going, so a bit of home wouldn’t be remiss. Don’t you think?”

Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen such a purely happy expression on Crowley’s face—as if Aziraphale had presented him with a personal rainbow, created just for his delight. It actually made the angel blush self-consciously.

“Thanks, angel. It helps, really.” With that, he leaned forward, a bit of a wince popping up, and took a few pieces of cheese.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but simply watch him for a moment, basking in the mild, cloud-broken sunlight, his slightly bed-mussed hair rustling beatifically in the ocean breeze. He looked more content than he had in... well, since before the Not-Apocalypse. And it was quite a radiant look on him.

The phone in the cottage rang then, almost making Aziraphale jump out of his skin.

“That’ll be Penny, then,” Crowley observed, biting into a piece of Parmesan and raising an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“Likely,” Aziraphale said as he stood, hurrying inside but leaving the glass door open.

“Hello, Penny.”

“How’d you know it was me?” she asked, already giggling.

“Well it’s not as if I know many more people,” Aziraphale said. “And you’re the only one I gave this number to.”

“Could have been a telemarketer. Would serve Crowley right, holiday getting interrupted by his own bloody wiles.”

“First of all, we’re not on holiday,” Aziraphale said breezily, turning to look out past the billowing pastel curtains to find Crowley stroking a finger over the plant’s lush leaf with a very broad smile on his lips. “Second of all...”

He knew he’d had a second point, but as a rush of affection came over him at the sight of Crowley appearing to behave so gently toward a plant, his train of thought derailed and lit an entire small town on fire.

“Can’t recall my second point,” he said jovially, to which Penny laughed (a sound Aziraphale would never tire of—it was genuine and wonderful, like birds in the morning). “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check on the patient,” Penny said, and Aziraphale felt another rush of fondness for the girl (how much fondness could one feel? Surely there was a limit?) “I er... felt something, a moment ago. Like a... a... sensation, or an emotion, and I know it wasn’t mine.”

Aziraphale angled his brows in confusion. “Thought you had to be touching someone for the clairvoyance to work?”

There was a beat of silence. “I do. But... I think... I think perhaps our... _bond_, spell, whatever you want to call it... I think it might be strengthening my ability. At least where you two are concerned.”

“Well, how do you know the emotion you felt wasn’t yours?” he asked curiously.

“Because it was a rush of happiness, and I’m currently ten cars back in a drive-through, late to class, with three unfinished essays hanging over my head. I assure you, it wasn’t me,” she huffed.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle. “Hm. That is very interesting, then. We’ll discuss further when we return. For now though, it’s... slow going. He can only take so much. The first go was... rough. Found that too much exposure to my angelic essence is... extremely detrimental.”

“Well, I could have told you that!” Penny exclaimed, light exasperation in her tone.

Aziraphale recalled how Crowley had collapsed to the floor, vomiting and screaming and convulsing in pain. He shivered.

“Yes, I know. We just... went a little too hard, too fast out of the gate, as it were. We’ve set a bit of a pace; few hours in the morning, few hours at night. Keeps him from getting overwhelmed, but... it’s going to take a long time. Once I got in there and saw how horribly disconnected he was... I’ve probably got several weeks of work on my hands,” he finished, again watching Crowley with reverence as he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the sun, the breeze.

“Is... is there anything I can do to help? I could come out there on the weekends? Or I could keep an eye on the bookshop, or something?” Penny asked.

Aziraphale smiled. “No, sweetheart, this is strictly ethereal business, bit dangerous for humans. And the bookshop’s all locked up, so it’ll be alright without me. You know me—habit of leaving it closed for days, so no problems there...”

Penny laughed boisterously.

“If you wanted to go in and dust, I wouldn’t stop you. Horrid on old parchment, dust. Just, er… lock the door behind you. Although... you could pop by Crowley’s and give the plants a splash of water. Don’t want them to get all droopy and sad. I’d hate for them to get reamed when he returns.”

“Good point,” Penny said, and there was a background exchange of money and ‘thank you’s’. “Will do. So... who did the rush of happiness come from then?”

Aziraphale considered, looking back out to find that Crowley had picked up the pot and placed it on a thigh, admiring the leaves from up close.

“You know, I’m not entirely sure.”


	24. The South Downs, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generally... more mild angst and tooth-rotting, coma-inducing, wildly self-indulgent fluff. So... _so much fluff._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

“Mmhmm. Yes, of course, sweetheart. You do the same. G’bye.”

It hadn’t gone beyond Crowley’s notice that Aziraphale never called Penny ‘my dear,’ only ‘sweetheart.’ He used to. It had started, as these things do, as a simple greeting the angel used to express his shock or unfamiliarity with someone or something. And it had morphed over the years, as these things do, to mean shock and _familiarity_ with a very specific person. In fact, he rarely called anyone other than Crowley ‘my dear,’ and it made the demon’s heart do funny little hummingbird thumps to think about. ‘My dear’—mine, my own, my dearest. 

Crowley battled the sentiment down, too overwhelmed to deal with it properly right now and electing to hide his face behind his tea cup. It felt heavy in his hand.

“Wha’she want?” he drawled as Aziraphale hung the phone on the receiver and made his way back out to the garden. He seated himself primly in the opposite chair, leaning forward and taking a slice of apple.

“Just to check on you, my dear,” Aziraphale said before biting into the slice with a crunch.

There it was again. _‘My dear.’ _

Crowley had always noticed the term of endearment, and had always recognized it as just that—endearment. But now, after what he’d overheard earlier in the week, when Aziraphale had thought him sleeping... it was somehow terrifying—huge, powerful. Where before it had been fueled by general angelic love, now... now it was ablaze with otherworldly, _focused_ love. And it was like staring into the sun for the first time, despite having lived beneath it since its inception.

Clearing his throat and setting down a tea cup that now felt like a bowling ball, Crowley nodded. “S’nice,” then, realizing it sounded patronizing, “s’nice of her.”

Aziraphale smiled, still nibbling on his bit of apple, the irony not lost on either of them, it seemed.

“You, er... you said something, on the phone, about... something being strange?” asked Crowley, feeling the beginnings of vertigo that he wasn’t sure the source of.

“Oh, yes, quite. She, er... _felt something. _ An emotion. From one of us,” Aziraphale said, bumbling in that way that suggested he was prancing around a certain topic.

Crowley let it go, opting instead for his confusion. “But... I thought...”

“Yes, I said the same thing—that I thought she had to touch someone to feel that. She said she does, ergo this is... something new. She supposed it could be a bi-product of the spell. Pulling us together, or some such. Told her we would discuss when we return.”

Crowley nodded. “What was the emotion?” he asked, and felt his heart do that obnoxious hummingbird flutter as Aziraphale’s cheeks attempted to mimic the apple skin in his hand.

“Can’t... er... can’t recall,” Aziraphale mumbled, quickly shoving another apple slice in his mouth in a very ‘oh look, I’m eating something, so sorry, can’t answer any more questions just now’ kind of way.

Crowley grinned, deciding to let it go. Whatever it was, it was something the angel was nervous to admit, which was fine. It wasn’t as if Crowley himself was unfamiliar with the feeling, and didn’t like being pried about it.

He turned his head to look out over the ocean, feeling a sudden and much more intense vertigo, the horizon line wavering diagonally and dancing like a pendulum.

He blinked it away hard, and when that didn’t help, he reached for another piece of cheese. He wasn’t at all hungry—in fact the very thought of food was making his stomach turn... but Aziraphale had gone to the trouble, so he’d indulge a little more.

He had to swallow hard against the nausea, closing his eyes in the hopes that it would quiet the vertigo, but all it did was make him aware of how cold he felt suddenly—it ached, like letting ice rest on a tooth.

There was a distant knowledge that he should tell Aziraphale... that he shouldn’t let this get out of hand. But then there was the sight of the angel there in the sun, content beyond reason as he watched the waves lap rhythmically at the sand down the hill, munching a bit of gouda and wiggling down more comfortably into his chair.

The vertigo spiked again badly, and Crowley leapt to his feet.

“Erm... I’m just... gunna take a... shower...” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes to keep from keeling over.

He wasn’t looking at the angel, but he knew the confused questioning look he was getting just by the way it filled the silence.

“Just been... lying down too long, feel... weird. Jus’want to, is all. Be back in a bit. You just... stay here. Enjoy,” he snapped, turning and trying very hard to walk in a straight line as he made his way through the sliding glass door and into the master bathroom adjacent the bedroom.

He slammed the door as little black spots crept into the corners of his vision, leaning back against it and covering his eyes.

_I do not need help_, he thought desperately before waving a hand at the shower. He’d expected it to burst to life with water as hot as he could get it, but instead he felt a drain behind his eyes that made his stomach turn and his body slump harder.

_No power, then. That’s fine. It’s not like I don’t have practice taking my clothes off... _

After what he was sure was an incredibly humorous struggle with his clothing, he stumbled past the obnoxious nautical themed curtain and flipped the faucet on as hot as it would go. Leaning against the tiles, he pressed his knuckles against clenched eyelids.

“I do _not_ need help...” he murmured through the scorching waterfall that draped over his lips. Maybe if he kept saying it, it would be true...

For a moment, the heat of the water helped—that ebbing chill in his bones began to wane, and the shivering stopped. But when he opened his eyes, his sight was completely tunneled, and the view of the shower tiles at the end of it was blurry and spinning.

“Shit...” he said, deciding far too late that he was definitely wrong.

***

Aziraphale was enjoying this view immensely, as he reclined a bit in his chair, breathing in the salty ocean air and munching on a nice salty bit of Parmesan. He’d always been partial to London—bustling, lively streets, cheery and grumpy people in equal measure, both of which made for fantastic people-watching, and a lovely variety of shops and restaurants, all within walking (or demon-driving) distance. But as he closed his eyes to the rhythmic symphony of far-off waves, the odd squawk of birds overhead, and light wind blowing through the tall grass... well, perhaps getting out of the city more often wouldn’t be remiss.

A sound caught his attention just then that was quite out of place; a yelp and a following _thud_, accompanied by some kind of metallic ring. And it came from within the cottage.

“Crowley?!” he called worriedly, tossing his bit of cheese back onto the plate and rocketing to his feet. He rushed through the small space, pausing to fret a bit about intruding before deciding that he’d prefer to apologize than ask permission.

“Crowley!”

The demon was collapsed in the shower, leaning heavily to the side against the tile wall, and it appeared he’d tried to stop himself and taken the curtain and rod down with him. The spray cascaded over him and the crumpled curtain, plastering his hair against his forehead and sending water ricocheting out onto the bathroom floor.

“Goodness sake!” Aziraphale tutted, waving a hand at the faucet to turn it off and hurrying forward. As he approached, he found that Crowley was shaking quite badly, nearly hyperventilating, and bracing himself on fists clenched so tightly that every knuckle shown bright white. He seemed to have lost what minimal amount of bodily control he had—his human-shaped tongue now forked and an iridescent line of black-green scales following the curve of his spine.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out for him.

Crowley made a sound almost like a growl, slapping Aziraphale’s hand away before burying his face in his palm and releasing a full-body shudder.

“Don’t. Just leave me here. This is... _humiliating...”_ he mumbled into his hand.

“Oh Crowley, _really!”_ Aziraphale scolded, slowly crouching just outside the shower to try to get a better angle to his face. “Why, because you’re naked?! Honestly, I wouldn’t think something so mundane and _human_ would bothe—”

“No,_ not that!”_ hissed Crowley, dropping his hand from his face but still staring straight ahead and avoiding the angel’s gaze. Although Aziraphale was distinctly aware of the high-pitched squeak on the word ‘not’ that seemed to contradict the statement, he decided not to comment. He couldn’t be sure, it could be the wetness dripping from Crowley’s hair, but... Aziraphale could swear there were tears on his cheeks. 

“This is pathetic... _I’m pathetic!”_ Crowley yelped, voice breaking with emotion. “I’m a bloody _demon_ for Christ’s sake! Held together a bloody burning car, faced down fucking _Satan._ Now... can’t stand, can’t breathe, can barely _think straight! _ I’m worse than human, _weaker! _ Have been, and I’m _so bloody tired of it, I’m—I can’t—”_

He let out another shuddering sigh, curling inward and wrapping his arms around himself. “What is _wrong with me?!” _

A rush of worry pulsed through Aziraphale with such intensity that he felt it in his ears, his fingertips. With a hearty grumble, he reached out to grab Crowley’s wrist and pull him against his chest, and blinked. All within one miracle, he dried Crowley of the water, clothed him in a pair of soft fleece pajamas (black, of course, he knew he could only get away with so much), relocated the both of them into the bed, and pulled the covers up.

It was closer and much more intimate than the two had ever been, if such vulnerability could be called intimacy. But it didn’t matter, none of it mattered; what Hell would think, what Heaven would think, what humans would think upon finding them like this. Crowley needed help, and Aziraphale would be damned before he let him go without. Literally.

“Hush now, Crowley, there’s nothing _wrong with you. _ You’ve had too much, you’re too depleted. But there’s nothing _wrong with you...” _

Crowley still shivered beside him, and he expected the demon to pull away; he wasn’t one for any kind of physical affection, or being seen to allow it. As it was, though, apparently Crowley no longer cared.

To Aziraphale’s complete and utter shock, Crowley desperately wrapped an arm around his torso, pulling him tightly against him and burying his face against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, angel, _I’m sorry...”_ he muttered against Aziraphale’s collar bone.

“Sorry for _what, my very dearest?_ For needing help, for needing... _someone to help you?_ Boy, I say... Hell has worked some incredible brainwashing on you, for you to think, after 6000 years of helping one another, that you must apologize for needing it now, more than ever. And to think that you would be a burden to me, that I wouldn’t leap at every opportunity to help you, support you, _be here for you! _ You don’t belong to them anymore, my sweet, and you would do well to remember that. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, _ask for it!_ Trust me, those who...”

Aziraphale stumbled, realizing what he’d almost said.

“_Ahem_... those who care about you will always provide. Alright?”

Crowley shifted, his body going a little bit less tense, but his grip around Aziraphale remaining.

Crowley regained a semblance of himself, as he said, “You’re one to talk...”

“Yes, well...” Aziraphale began, shimmying against the mattress to settle in closer to Crowley. “My own brainwashing notwithstanding...”

“Angel, I—”

“I swear to Go— I swear on your beloved Bentley, if you apologize _one more time_, I’ll... I’ll...”

Crowley finally pulled his head out of the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, staring at him with mildly critical amusement.

The stare was somehow both intense and incredibly open and inviting, and it made Aziraphale’s train of thought derail completely.

“I’ll... er..._ puncture your tires!” _

Crowley giggled genuinely, nuzzling back against Aziraphale with hopeless abandon, sighing as he relaxed a little more.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’d just miracle away the damage.”

“But you’d always know it was there. Underneath. And for that reason, you wouldn’t do it,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale could _feel_ his knowing grin.

“Tell you what we’re going to do,” Aziraphale said, boldly raising a hand and raking his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “We’re going to take a long break from... all of this. The healing. For a week, at the very least. You’re going to rest—regain your strength. And we’ll go on long walks through town. When you feel well enough, of course...”

He began gently forming little semicircles against Crowley’s scalp, and he could feel it as Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobbed, suppressing a comforted groan.

“We’ll visit the wonderful little bakery on the end of Main Street. You’ll like it, I think. The ladies who run it make a mean cream cake. I actually brought home a few of them...”

He paused as he realized he’d said ‘home,’ but really... for now, it was. Home was where they were... together.

He brushed off the strange tingle the thought gave him, continuing brokenly.

“Then we’ll try every wonderful little hole-in-the-wall restaurant this little village has to offer, one by one. Good, bad, all of them.”

Crowley hummed. His desperate grip around Aziraphale loosened, but didn’t release.

“I’d like to show you the flower shop, as well. I think you’ll like it. Well... maybe _like_ is a strong word. Appreciate, more like. The lad who runs it is... a shy sort. Very soft spoken. But I overheard him talking to his plants, and you’d be pleased to know that his take to it as well as yours. Although, he is much more _mild_ about his conversations.”

Crowley gave a snort of laughter, and the puff of air it created brushed across Aziraphale’s neck, and he felt something so strong pulse through his veins, it felt like lightning. Like lightning, straight to the temple.

“Then we’ll go get absolutely _pissed_ at the village pub,” he said, turning his head downward to find Crowley’s eyes closed and, what appeared to be an entirely involuntary grin spreading his lips into thin little lines.

“Then perhaps we’ll go to the market; pick up a few things. Have a picnic down on the beach. I’m sure there’s a blanket in this old place, big enough for the two of us. Would you like that, my dear? A bottle of champagne and a few simple sandwiches, nothing fancy?”

Crowley didn’t respond with words. His grip tightened again, but it wasn’t desperate this time. It was reminiscent of the way pages settle against one another, of pen and paper meeting; a perfection that rivals any of God’s great, cosmically misunderstood creations—meant to fit, against all odds. This time, it was Aziraphale who hummed his contentment.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

He could tell the demon was prancing on the thin line between awake and asleep, and debated continuing.

“This... sleeping business. How do you go about it?”

Crowley rearranged again, but only managed to move closer; slinging a leg over Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale blushed, but he wasn’t sure why.

“Dunno, just... close your eyes and relax, I suppose?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale obliged, but his thoughts simply raced against his eyelids; what did all this mean? Would they talk about this? Or would Crowley just... pull a Crowley, and pretend it hadn’t happened? Would Aziraphale be okay with that? What happened if he wasn’t?

“Yes, but... how do you shut off your mind? Terribly loud, mine,” he admitted, fidgeting.

“Well... what works for me may not work for you,” Crowley mumbled.

“Tell me. And we’ll see,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grinned again, and Aziraphale dragged his fingers against his scalp again.

“Alwaysss liked that, you know?” he said, clearly unable to avoid the hiss.

“Liked what?” Aziraphale inquired, thrown off by the sudden change in topic.

Crowley’s hand rose languidly, pointing at Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. “That. Feels... nice. Couldn’t tell you… before. Can now.”

Aziraphale blushed more intensely. “Oh. Well... I’m glad.”

“Hm. I just... think of something relaxing. Something I enjoy doing, something that’s second nature. For me, it’s driving. Countryside, mostly. You in the passenger seat. Some Queen song or another playing, and the windows down, blowing our hair about so swiftly I... I can almost feel it in my feathers. Brilliant orange sunset, changes the colors of everything. The upholstery, the varnish... your hair. Perfection. Always sends me right to sleep...”

He was starting to slur, proving that his little bedtime fantasy was doing its intended job.

Aziraphale considered what his would be—perhaps the bookshop, maybe the Ritz. Maybe St. James Park, or even the Bentley. But the more he thought about it... this, right here... was damn near perfection already. It was foreign, and new, and terrifying. But with Crowley so close at his side, safe and unharmed and _happy_... the location didn’t really matter. If he could have _this_... just once more—he’d be alright.

His movements began to slow in Crowley’s hair, the demon’s languid form pressed perfectly against him. He smiled, turning on his side to face him, pulling him in even further and wrapping both arms around him. It was safe, and that’s all that mattered.

And slowly, sleep overtook him.


	25. The South Downs, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a delightful dream, and Aziraphale learns to drive... sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> A note: Crowley has intrusive thoughts, and will continue to in this story. He's got a lot of trauma to work through.

Crowley was in snake form. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been, but _damn_, did it feel good. Terribly restricting, human bodies; the spine only bent so far, leaving Crowley feeling tense... _taut_—just on the verge of being able to stretch the way he wanted but unable to quite get there. Like this, he was free to curl, stretch, slither—move in all the ways he was meant to. 

It certainly had its drawbacks, though, namely—heat. He was cold, always _so cold_, seeking out that perfect warmth that would liven him up, awaken those spring-coiled muscles. Unable to shiver, the cold would make him somewhat dormant—sluggish, weak, lethargic. He wasn’t meant to be any of those things. He was meant for speed, for striking like lightning. He was meant to be a predator, wasn’t he? That’s what He intended, right? When He cast him out?

Perhaps that was the irony of it. Seeking out warmth like divine light. Seeking, never quite finding.

Crowley was in a desert, and something in his brain was so muddled that he didn’t stop to wonder why. _This is normal... right?_ he thought absently to himself. _Yeah... this is where I was last... _

Despite the sand being warm beneath his scales, it wasn’t enough. It was only skin deep, as it were, and as Crowley slithered through it, he exposed a lower, cooler level that made him ache. He didn’t like it. He needed more warmth, more heat. The thought of changing forms didn’t cross his mind, the thought of demonic miracles didn’t cross his mind. Nothing, in fact, crossed his mind except for the desperately mounting need for heat.

He looked about, tasting the air with his long, split tongue and finding nothing but hot, stale air, and dry, arid sand.

He was about to give up—just curl into a tight ball of snake and hope it helped—when he spotted it; a large, white rock protruding high into the sky, radiating warmth in his vision.

He went for it shamelessly—slithering up and resting his head on the very top and wrapping the rest of him around it in a slowly descending spiral like ribbon down a Christmas tree. He wasn’t completely snake, as his true form was a bundle of occult mass, and as such he was able to let out a sigh of comfort as he settled against the hard surface.

It was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been searching for—so warm on his belly scales that it was almost too hot. Scorching, at first, but settling into the perfect temperature as he soaked up the most unbearable part of it. It was complete perfection, and he tightened every inch of his coiled self around it, grateful.

And then the rock shifted slightly... no, the world shifted slightly. The rock pushed up against him, and spoke.

“Morning, my dear.”

And the dreamland began to fall away, dropping out from under him slowly like an escalator, descending back toward consciousness. The desert melted away, the deep blue cloudless sky, and the rock, so warm and perfect.

It was replaced, however, with a similar sensation; instead of feeling the heat against the vast length of his belly scales, he felt it on the undersides of his human-shaped arms, against his chest and legs. One leg, in fact, was thrown forward and making a valiant effort to wrap around the heat source as his serpentine form had done.

“Mmmm,” Crowley moaned, something in his brain screaming to pull away from the heat source, but not understanding why. So he pushed in closer against it, feeling a comfort seep so deeply into him, it felt like it warmed up his very heart.

“Very clingy in the mornings, aren’t you...”

Crowley began to return to consciousness, and he peeked an eye open...

He was wrapped around Aziraphale as if he was the rock in his dream... probably had been the rock in his dream. His one arm was curled beneath the pillow below their heads, his other pulling the angel so tightly against his torso that a penny would have a hard time fitting between them. His leg was thrown over Aziraphale’s, and that too was pulling the angel against him.

He panicked. Sure he’d always wanted this, always knew Aziraphale would be like hugging the sun. But it was too much, it was too close, it was too... vulnerable. It exposed him completely, not physically, but emotionally—that the one thing he wanted so desperately, for as long as he could remember... was to _be this close. _ And not in the painful ‘sharing a corporation’ kind of way... the open, easy comfort of sharing _everything else_ kind of way.

“Sorry...” Crowley yelped, beginning to hurriedly scramble away and reclaim a more distant position.

“No, no, no...” Aziraphale hurried, grabbing Crowley’s wrist as it retreated across his chest. He stilled, looking into Crowley’s eyes with such strength and resolve... it was like staring at a flaming sword, but a hundred times more deadly. To Crowley, anyway.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, my dear. Stay...”

Crowley suffered a miniature breakdown. This was so... unfamiliar, but welcome. So incredibly welcome. He’d wanted something, _anything remotely close to this_ with Aziraphale, for so long. And here he was, his perfect angel... _cuddling_ (Crowley hated that word—too much emotional baggage, but it was currently the only one he had to describe what they were doing) with him in bed. It felt rather like enjoying a wonderful dream only to feel that rollercoaster-drop moment of ‘oh... I’m dreaming, that’s why this feels so perfect.’

Apparently Crowley did a mediocre job of masking all these thoughts, as he lay propped and frozen next to Aziraphale.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, raising his eyebrows rather comically.

“Right. Yeah. Just, er... thinking... is all,” he said, cautiously settling back against the angel.

Oblivious to what he was doing to Crowley, Aziraphale wiggled his delight, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and returning that torturous perfect hand to his hair.

It felt like that first ray of sunshine after rain, like first kisses, like hot coffee after a bender. Like coming home after a long holiday and realizing your home actually does have a smell, you’ve just never noticed. And it smells like _home. _

Crowley’s eyes rolled a bit as he closed them, unable to stop the grin.

“You keep doing that, and I’m going to fall asleep again,” he warned, his voice hoarse from sleeping.

Aziraphale hummed, doubling down and gently curling his manicured fingernails against Crowley’s scalp. Again, Crowley was helpless to do anything but groan happily.

“That’s fine, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Take as long as you need.”

Crowley had a momentary, bubbling thought that screamed _‘stop being so good to me, you’re too good to me, I don’t deserve it. I’ve done nothing to deserve it. Get away. I’ll taint you, I’ll ruin you. I’ll blot out your light with my darkness. _

He’d had those thoughts for... as long as he could remember. Just part of being what he was, and in fact he’d gotten so used to them that he hardly noticed when they were dictating his actions anymore.

But this time... this time felt different. Because, before, his immediate reaction would have been to act on those thoughts—pull away, say something dismissive and distant, _hide, _ in every way that he could. Hide his body language by turning away, hide his eyes with sunglasses, hide his intrusive and abusive thoughts by drowning them in alcohol. Now, Aziraphale’s many reassuring words formed a sword and shield—“You don’t belong to them anymore, my sweet, and you would do well to remember that. If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, _ask for it! _ Trust me, those who care about you will always provide”—battering back the thoughts and slicing them into tiny, insignificant pieces, which an angel could arrange in cute little rows on the charcuterie board of ‘enemies upon which to nibble.’

Crowley giggled to himself at the image, settling further against Aziraphale.

“What’s so funny?” the angel asked, and Crowley could feel his head turn a bit as he looked down at him.

“Nuthin, angel. How long was I asleep?” he asked hurriedly, hopefully bypassing the discussion of his intrusive thoughts.

“_We_ slept for about a day and a half, I believe.”

Crowley pulled back with shock, propping on an elbow and looking down at... a rather smug angel.

“You slept?!” Crowley asked with a comical inflection on the end that had been completely involuntary.

Aziraphale smiled, the hand that had been forced from Crowley’s hair when he leaned up flopping down against the mattress.

“I did,” the angel acquiesced, but it didn’t seem to bother him. It was the same ‘sort of guilty but not really’ tone he used to say “oh yes, I think so” when asked by their server if they’ll be wanting dessert.

“Any good dreams?” Crowley asked curiously. Dreams were his favorite part of sleeping. They could make wild fantasies come true, they could shatter through wall after wall of inhibitions and just... _be_. Unapologetically, unequivocally. He’d even deal with the odd nightmare, just for the chance of a good dream. And he found that he was almost painfully desperate to know what Aziraphale dreamed of.

“You know... I’m not sure. I seem to recall something, but... now it’s like... it’s like it’s floating away...” Aziraphale said, a look of worried horror crossing his features.

“Yeah, they do that, sometimes,” Crowley said, shifting to lie on his back on top of Aziraphale’s draped-out arm. “Some you remember, some you don’t. But... it helps to practice?”

He hated how desperate his voice sounded, there at the end, and was extremely thankful that he was staring up at the ceiling. The angel couldn’t read all the questions in his eyes that way—_would you want to? Keep doing this, I mean? I don’t know what it... means, per se, and we don’t have to label it. That’s a human thing anyway, labels. But... I enjoy sleeping next to you. I feel safe, not just physically, but in knowing that you’re here, that you’re safe too. Cuz... I worry... and stuff. _

He wasn’t sure how, but it seemed pretty apparent that Aziraphale had heard _all of those questions_ in Crowley’s tone, and met it with delighted resignation.

“You know, I think that’s a splendid idea. I’ve been permitted my dining at the Ritz, my hoarding of books. Certainly they couldn’t object to an odd harmless nap or two?” reasoned Aziraphale.

Crowley smiled wider, trying to wrangle in his triumphant glow and missing by a mile.

“A drop in the bucket of your skirting-the-line sins, eh angel?”

“Oi!” Aziraphale went to chastise him with a swat, but seeing as how his arm was pinned beneath Crowley’s shoulders, his fingers merely flopped against Crowley’s upper arm.

A silence fell then, but it wasn’t weighty, as Crowley would have expected with such things in the air. It was light, like buttercream, which was a comparison he was sure Aziraphale would approve of.

“How does some breakfast sound, my dear? I went to the market a few days since, and picked up a few things; bread, eggs, beans. Would you like that?”

To be completely honest, Crowley wanted to stay like this, in bed with Aziraphale, for the next year at least. But the adoration in Aziraphale’s tone had Crowley wanting to scream ‘yes’ to anything he had to ask.

“Yeah. Sounds good angel,” he said, making no moves to rise from the bed.

“Alright. I’ll go and get things started, you get up when you feel like. Outside, sound good to you? In the garden?”

Crowley nodded with a smile.

“And Crowley?”

There was something in Aziraphale’s tone that made Crowley’s heart leap into his throat. _Oh Go—someone, what is he going to ask? You know I’m rubbish at expressing... everything. Please don’t put me in a position to have to reciprocate... out loud. I can’t. Years and years and years of Hellish brainwashing has made me incapable, but... just cuz I can’t say these things out loud doesn’t mean I don’t feel them. Please, please just... accept my actions as recompense. _

“Yes?” Crowley asked, swallowing a throatful of dread.

“I’ll be needing my arm back, if you please.”

***

Crowley had meant to get up and _stay up_ after breakfast. He really had. But the warm sun on his skin and comforting food in his belly had made his eyelids weigh approximately as much as a mildly sentient Bentley. And Aziraphale was a damn enabler; coaxing Crowley back into an already shade-darkened and perfectly tranquil bedroom. 

He’d slept for almost a full day longer, stirring only when the angel leaned slightly out of reach for a book. Crowley made a decision then, forcing himself to get up and get dressed and _do things. _ For all Aziraphale’s insisting that he was fine with Crowley resting, he knew the angel must be immeasurably bored. Of course he objected, _‘I’m fine with my books, dear, really!’ _ But Crowley knew it couldn’t be any fun just lounging about with the world’s most languid and lethargic demon. And Aziraphale had dangled some tantalizing prospects in front of his serpentine eyes when last they spoke, so he figured they could just get going, and he’d wake more when he was moving.

He hissed and groaned as the bright sun collided with pupils that hadn’t seen more than back porch shade in days, swaying unsteadily as he threw an arm up to shield himself.

Aziraphale immediately dithered, swerving on his path to the Bentley and looping a hand beneath Crowley’s arm.

“Are you quite sure you’re up for this, my dear? Really, I don’t mind if we just sta—”

“Yes, angel, I’m sure,” he snapped, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose in the hopes that it would quell the mild headache that had formed upon taking in direct sunlight. “If I spend one more minute lounging on that bed, I’m going to become part of the embroideries. And you know how I feel about them…” he trailed off, diverting.

“Mm, yes. _Dismal_, I believe, is the word you used,” Aziraphale said, his tone more relaxed, but his grip on Crowley’s arm vicelike as ever. “Are you _sure_ that you can handle this? You really mustn’t humor me just because you think I’m bored or—”

_“I’m sure angel,”_ Crowley said harshly, but soothed the tone by resting his hand over the angel’s where it wrapped about his elbow. “Sometimes you just have to push yourself, and the comfort will follow.”

“Oh… I know. I just… you have this nasty habit of pretending you’re fine when you’re not; pushing yourself beyond your own limits just to make _me happy.” _

Crowley opened his mouth to interrupt, but Aziraphale was quicker, holding up a scolding finger that burned in the air between them like a flaming sword. Crowley was powerless to anything but begrudging silence.

“And I want you to know that… well, to tell me when… oh, bugger. I really would feel better if you weren’t driving, anyway,” he said, his cheeks red with exertion. Crowley was so endeared by it that he had to take a moment to recollect his thoughts, as one does after witnessing a particularly adorable cat video on the internet.

“Well…” he said, halting his meandering steps before he could aim for the driver’s side. “Why don’t you drive, then?”

If the angel’s hairline hadn’t formed such an impenetrable barrier, his eyebrows probably would have returned to heaven. “Me?! _Drive?!”_

“Well… yeah,” Crowley replied with an unstoppable grin/giggle combo. “F’you’re so worried about me doing it. It’ll be fun. I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me?!” Aziraphale gasped, looking over his shoulder at the car with newfound exasperation. To its own credit, the Bentley looked as though Crowley had just suggested they coat it with a layer of maple syrup—headlights suddenly flaring brightly and Queen’s _Another One Bites the Dust_ blaring through the speakers. 

Aziraphale seemed to whiplash from shock, to doubt, to consideration as he looked down at the great metal beast before him.

“You would… you would trust me with… your beloved Bentley?” he squeaked, his fingers tightening gently on Crowley’s elbow.

A pang of hurt flared through the demon suddenly, as if he’d stepped on a pebble in bare feet.

“I’ve trusted you unyieldingly, body and soul, for the last week, and you think I’m about to draw the line at my _car?!” _he huffed.

Aziraphale flustered, muttering a nearly incoherent string of excuses that sounded terribly like ‘well you do seem to value it more than your corporeal self…’

“Hush up, angel, and get in,” Crowley snapped coolly, detaching himself from a now visibly nervous angel and making for the passenger side.

“Me? In the driver’s side?” Aziraphale whined, twisting his hands together and regarding the vehicle’s door with the same reverence as one gives a feral cat.

Crowley would have been annoyed with the angel’s constant questioning if he wasn’t so painfully endeared by it. It was as if Crowley had suggested Aziraphale take up a side-gig stripping.

He leaned on the roof of the car, crossing his arms on the heated metal and rolling his head to look at the angel where he still stood by the cottage’s picket fence.

“Well… one does typically sit in the _driver’s seat_ in order to drive, angel,” he said, glad to see Aziraphale beginning to tiptoe toward the car. Crowley had to bite his tongue as the angel held out a hand against the rear quarter panel as if alerting a spooked horse to his presence. “Although… you and I probably don’t,” Crowley mused, leaning back and popping his own door open. “In fact I once drove from the boot just to see if I could.”

Aziraphale spared a judgmental glare Crowley’s way before cautiously popping the driver’s side door open and sliding gingerly into the seat next to Crowley.

“Oh… oh, this feels wrong,” Aziraphale said, looking about at the many bits and baubles and placing his hands with finesse on the steering wheel. “I’ve never seen it from this side before. It’s like… it’s like I’ve been plopped into a mirror!”1

Crowley smiled, watching as the angel’s perfectly manicured hands caressed the leather of the wheel like… well, he hated to tarnish Aziraphale’s carefully perfected façade of innocence, but it was oddly reminiscent of a lover’s touch. He had to spare a quick effort to wrangle in the thoughts that dared to stampede from the gates upon that realization, and he cleared his throat as he barely lassoed them.

“Right,” he began, shifting in his seat and leaning back nonchalantly. “So when the humans came up with automatic transmissions, I miracle’d one into the old bird. Fits my lazy aesthetic, at any rate. So it’ll be easier to learn.”

“My dear, I don’t know what a transmission is,” Aziraphale said, rolling his head on the swivel of his neck to peer pathetically over at his demon passenger. “Is that the thing that… makes it… _go?” _

Crowley legitimately thought he might regurgitate his own heart. It was like watching a toddler try to explain something in the most adorably_ wrong_ way possible.

“Sure. Close enough, angel,” he said, positive that he hadn’t stopped the fond smile that cracked his aloofness. “There’s two kinds; manual and automatic. The motor has to change gears when it needs more power. When it reaches a certain RPM, it needs to…”

The way the angel pursed his lips and widened his eyes positively screamed ‘you’re speaking in gibberish again, my dear.’

Crowley halted, licking his lips and considering how best to put it. 

“Think of it like this; you’re flying, right? You hit a wind gust. And you need to adjust the angle of your wings, otherwise you’re going to get tossed around like a bloody ragdoll. So you have to move them that much faster to accommodate for the resistance. And then once you’ve powered through the gust, you have to adjust again to reach a comfortable hovering speed, otherwise you’ll exhaust yourself. Car’s the same way. It changes gears when it needs more power, and changes again when it doesn’t need it anymore. Initially, you, the driver, had to feel and use your intuition, and change the gears yourself. S’a manual transmission. Eventually, and perhaps with a bit of demonic inspiration, humans got too lazy to be shifting gears every few seconds, and created the automatic. It knows when it needs more power, and changes automa—”

“What do you mean, _it knows?” _Aziraphale asked, eyeing the dashboard suspiciously. “Does it have a brain?”

Crowley grinned wickedly. “Most don’t. This one might.”

The radio burst to life, startling them both.

_I'm in love with my car_  
_Gotta feel for my automobile_  
_Get a grip on my boy racer rollbar_  
_Such a thrill when your radials squeal…_

“Yeah, yeah, _shut it!” _ Crowley barked, leaning in and twisting the volume knob down with a dramatic flip of the wrist. “Where were we?” he added, a bit flustered and more than a bit aware that his cheeks were warming. “Right, automatic. It knows when to change gears—”

“Yes, you said. But _how does it know?” _ Aziraphale asked. Damned angel and his need for knowledge, even when he didn’t particularly care to have it.

“S’… computer chip, or… something. Tells it when to—”

“You don’t actually know, do you?”

“Might do, but it’s not really impor—”

“You _don’t know!” _

“Are you going to be this insufferable _the entire time?”_

“You’re the one who wanted to teach me. So _teach me, _ Professor Crowley!” 

With that, the angel leaned onto the center console, propping his chin in his palms and batting his eyelashes with the flair of 1000 bastards.

_“Incorrigible,” _Crowley grumbled, playfully knocking the angel’s elbows out from under him and making him nearly tip over. “Take this seriously,” he said, waving a hand impatiently back at the wheel. Aziraphale wiggled back into place with a smug crooked grin plastered to his face.

“Here. Light her up,” Crowley said, dangling the keys between them. As he knew it would, the action wiped the smugness from the angel’s face and replaced it with worry. And Crowley wasn’t nearly as happy to have done so as he thought he’d be.

“Are you _quite_ sure? Really, we could just walk…”

“Ohhhh, it’s a challenge now, angel,” Crowley positively purred. “We’re not leaving this car until you’ve learned at least a modicum of driver’s ed.”

Aziraphale grumbled, but took the keys reverently. 

“Turn it until you meet resistance, then hold it there until it turns over… er, turns on,” Crowley instructed, pointing to the ignition.

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you use these, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he inserted the key, turned it, and smiled at the answering roar.

“I don’t. I can turn her on with just a thought, baby,” he said suggestively, to which the engine positively growled in response. Aziraphale rolled his eyes but declined to comment. “But for teaching purposes, we’ll use ‘em. Now, foot on the brake. S’eh one on the left.”

Aziraphale leaned down to narrow his eyes at the floorboard, pressing his foot on the pedal with all the might of baby bird.

“She’s a hefty bitch, really stomp on it. She won’t break. Can’t have her rolling away on you,” he said, watching with a smile as Aziraphale shoved his foot down. “This is your gear shift,” he continued, pointing to the sleek leather knob emblazoned with the silver ‘B’. “For today, all you need to trouble yourself with is these three. Park, reverse, and drive,” he pointed to the P, R, and D markings respectively. “Now—one hand on the wheel, other on the gear shift, and put her in reverse.”

Crowley found that he immensely enjoyed watching the angel struggle to pull the knob, the old metal arguing with him a few times before jolting into gear. The car made its typical _click_ as it did, and Aziraphale’s free hand flew back to the steering wheel, where the knuckles promptly turned white.

“What was that? Is that supposed to happen? _Did I break something?!” _Aziraphale yelped, his voice several octaves higher than normal.

Grinning, Crowley rested a hand on the angel’s shoulder and decided to drop the asshole act. “It’s fine, angel. Relax. I wouldn’t care if you did break it. But yes, that’s normal. That was the gears shifting.”

“Oh. Oh, alright,” Aziraphale replied, flustered and blushing. 

“Now gently release the brake and just let her roll back. Like I said, she’s a bit longer than most cars today, so give yourself plenty of room. Perfect.”

Aziraphale let out a series of worried little _ohs_ and _ahs_, but luckily already understood the dynamics of a three-point turn, angling the steering wheel to back the car from the drive and place it perfectly on the empty two-lane road.

“See? You’re a natural already,” Crowley beamed. “Brake again. Good. Now shift into drive. Ease off the brake, ease on the gas. Grad—”

Before he could get the word ‘gradually’ out, Aziraphale had slammed his foot onto the gas as he’d done to the brake earlier, and the Bentley jolted forward, slamming both their heads into their seatbacks. Aziraphale yowled, removed his foot from the gas, and the car jolted back to a slow roll, rumbling aggressively.

Crowley couldn’t help the laughter that spilled out as he rubbed the back of his head. “_Gradually_, angel.”

“Well, you didn’t say that!”

“I was getting to it, you overzealous speed demon, you!” he said, laughing harder at the distressed and frustrated twist in Aziraphale’s face. “S’fine, angel, s’fine. No one on this back country road, anyway. Try again. _Gradually.” _

Aziraphale’s momentary glare could have been used as a flint to light the M25. Regardless, though, he very successfully prodded the Bentley to a shameful 25mph. Crowley didn’t think this car had ever done 25mph in the entire life of it, preferring to leap straight into the 70s like a, pardon the pun, bat out of Hell. But as he watched the angel leaning to within inches of the wheel like a blind geriatric escaped from the retirement home and worrying at his tongue by keeping just the tip of it pinched nervously between his lips in a very catlike manner… he hadn’t the heart to complain. He simply relaxed into his seat, propping a heel on the dash.

“You’re gunna need that tongue to taste the cheesecake, angel, might not want to bite it off before we even get there.”

Aziraphale huffed, sucking his tongue back in and compromising by tightening his grip on the wheel.

“Seriously, angel. Relax. You’re doing just fine. In fact, I’m gunna take a nap…”

As he’d known he would, Aziraphale panicked, turning in his chair and exclaiming worriedly, “Crowley?!”

He was met with a devilish grin that Crowley hoped said ‘I was never going to take a nap, I’m just fucking with you, and boy is it fun!’

Apparently it did say all of those things, because the angel narrowed his eyes, released a drawn-out _‘oooooo’, _ and reached over to punch him hard in the upper arm.

“Oi! Hands on the wheel, Mario!” he snapped, rubbing his arm and basking in the playful smile that radiated from his angel like early morning sun.

“Who’s Mario?” Aziraphale asked. “Did he teach you how to drive?”

Crowley snorted, angling himself in the chair to half-lean against the door so he could watch the angel as he trapped his tongue in his lips once more.

“Sure, angel. Mario taught me how to drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1While it is true that Aziraphale did 'drive' Crowley back to the bookshop the night he found him passed out in his flat, he didn't _actually_ drive, simply willed the car to convey them through London, and he did so from the passenger's seat. Sitting in the driver's seat, even when he was the only one conscious in the vehicle, never crossed his mind.


	26. The South Downs, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take a leisurely trip into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> My first attempt at outsider perspective. I think I did alright.

Margaret Teska was anger baking. Again. She found that physically shoving her hand through flour-coated dough tended to help her fuming anger simmer a bit, but it wasn’t really helping this time. This was the third time this week that she and Liza had fought. It always started as something small—“you’ve left your pan in the sink again, I told you I don’t like it sitting overnight,” “must you talk so loud on the phone, surely they can hear you just fine.” But they were both bull-headed women, and neither was willing to back down. It had been what initially drew them together. Liza used to joke, after her divorce, that men just couldn’t provide her with the spice she was looking for in life, and nothing compared to the ghost pepper that had stumbled through her front door. 

Margaret couldn’t help but soften, looking up from her kneading to glance at where Liza was angrily wiping down tables that had been clean yesterday.

It wasn’t as if either of them particularly _cared_ about the things they’d been arguing about—in fact, as a former barrister, Margaret was a tough proponent of the ‘pick your battles’ mentality. But ever since the rent rise notification on the bakery arrived, the two of them had been allowing the little things to worm under their skin in ways they never had before.

“Holy shit...” Liza murmured, and Margaret bristled. They hadn’t spoken since this morning, and it had been a curtly muttered “did you make the coffee?” “Mmhmm,” and _‘holy shit’_ was going to be the first words said?

Margaret looked past her to what had drawn the exclamation, and found herself echoing the sentiment as an absolutely stunning beast of a vintage car pulled up delicately to the bakery’s car park and rolled to a stop.

Margaret grabbed a hand towel, sauntering around the counter as she wiped the flour from her fingers, taking special care to still polish the powder from her diamond ring and leave it gleaming. A smile shattered through her bad mood as she saw who emerged from the Bentley.

His name had been Ezra Fell, if she recalled correctly, and he’d been in last week sometime to purchase an embarrassing amount of pastries. He was a painfully nice man—friendly to a fault, and a delightful conversationalist, if a bit fussy. He’d spoken of a friend who was under the weather, which was why he was taking all the goodies to go, and that friend now appeared to be emerging from the car’s passenger side, and...

Margaret didn’t know what she was expecting, but a perfectly picturesque Adonis was not it. The man was tall and lanky, all sharp angles and lean muscle. He bore dark, handsomely tousled hair and a pair of sunglasses that she was certain she’d have to sell a kidney to afford. He wavered unsteadily a bit as he rose from the car, and Mr. Fell positively rocketed around the car to support him on an arm, leaning in to speak to him, even though no one would hear. Margaret immediately felt a pang of nostalgia, peering over at where Liza had made a show of returning to viciously scrubbing one of the tables.

“Scrub that much harder, and you’ll put a hole in it,” Margaret said, meaning it as a joke but realizing, in the context of their recent row that it probably sounded pissy. She considered apologizing as she pushed open the door, but on a list of things she should be apologizing for, this was the lowest of priorities.

“Morning, Mr. Fell,” she greeted cheerily, squinting against the sunshine and watching with amusement as the clash of earth tones and blacks worked their way over. The taller lad pushed away a bit, but it was clear in his demeanor that it was only because he didn’t want to appear weak.

“Finish it all already, have you?” She asked, and Mr. Fell blushed.

“Oh no, not at all. Still have plenty,” he said, wringing his hands and watching his companion with worried eyes. “He was just feeling a bit better, and I thought... well, I thought he’d like to get out for a bit, see the place.”

“Oh, this is him, is it?” Margaret asked, stepping closer and aiming to shake the lad’s hand. He paused before doing so, his brows rising comically over his sunglasses as he gave Mr. Fell an imploring look.

“Oh, you talked about me, did you?” the dark one said, to which Mr. Fell blushed harder.  


“All good things, I assure you,” Margaret said, holding out a hand and declaring, “Margaret Teska.”

“I certainly hope not, I’ve a reputation to uphold,” the man replied with a dashingly mischievous grin, taking her hand in a gentle yet powerful grip and responding, “Anthony Crowley.”

“Lovely to meet you, sir,” she said with a smile, already able to tell the lad had a wicked, and likely naughty, sense of humor. He confirmed this suspicion by quickly responding,

“Just Crowley, please. Sir is my father.”

Margaret giggled, addressing her next question to the familiar Mr. Fell. “Pop in for a bit? Liza’s just made some delightful quiches this morning.”

“Oh that sounds lovely,” Mr. Fell said excitedly, and the Crowley fellow just shrugged, motioning with a hand in an ‘after you,’ gesture.

The pair chose a table at the very front of the bakery, in the light of the bay window, and Liza moved away from the tables while tossing Margaret a ‘guess we’ll pretend to get along for a mo’ look.

“I was telling Crowley all about you two,” Ezra said, settling into his chair and rearranging his coat. “And your lovely little bakery. We had some of the cream cake the other day, and it was simply wonderful.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Margaret said, leaning over and grabbing a few menus. “Anything striking your fancy today?”

Each of them took a menu, but Crowley immediately set it down on the table, while Ezra leaned in to peruse it critically.

“The quiche you mentioned sounds wonderful. We haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“Very good, I’ll go and fetch them. Anything else for you gents? Some tea, coffee?”

“Tea for me. The Darjeeling, with a lemon wedge,” Ezra said, wiggling happily in his chair. Margaret felt a very strange urge to hug him.

“Coffee. Cream and two sugars, thanks,” Crowley said shortly, peering out the window.

Margaret wondered for a moment why he hadn’t removed his glasses, but let it go as an eccentricity as she left the pair and walked behind the counter.

“Married, d’you reckon?” she asked gently, her first attempt at an olive branch.

“Don’t see any rings,” Liza quipped back, and her tone gave Margaret hope.

“True. But we didn’t have any for three years, didn’t make you any less my wife.”

“With all the perks and frustration,” Liza said. In the climate of their recent fight, it could have been meant as rude. But it was delivered with a tentative smile, so Margaret simply nodded, rested a hand on Liza’s shoulder, and turned for the kitchen to fetch the quiche.

She left the two men with their food for a little while, watching with budding warmth as Mr. Fell leaned in excitedly and chattered excessively at Crowley. For all his aloof and passive demeanor was worth, he was open and inviting, listening attentively to every word, if a bit tired.

After the quiche, Mr. Fell decided he’d like to try Liza’s baklava, having seen on the menu the stylized little _‘old family recipe’_ that Margaret had been sure to add when Liza let her redesign it a few years back.

“That yours out there, sir?” Margaret asked jovially, nodding to the Bentley as she set down two small plates of almond baklava.

“Oh, Heavens no!” Mr. Fell yelped, a hand hovering over his heart. “All his. He was just teaching me how to drive it.”

“Only crashed twice,” Crowley said, to which he got kicked under the table.

Margaret grinned, peering back to the counter where Liza had retreated, pretending to be preoccupied shaping bread loaves.

“Bit of a car gal, myself,” she said, turning to face Liza and beckoning her to join them at the table. She declined, staying out behind the counter. Probably a remnant of their fight; a last ditch effort to hold onto her earlier anger. She did speak, though, raising her voice to be heard, “That’s what initially caught my attention; that Rolls Royce sliding into my car park like a bowling ball.”

“A Rolls?” Crowley asked, impressed.

Margaret nodded. “Former barrister,” she said, a little guilt sneaking into her voice. “Very successful one, at that. It afforded a few... luxuries.”

Crowley sat up a little straighter, and somehow she could tell he was studying her, even through the glasses.

“You’re _that_ Teska? I remember a few of your more high profile cases. When was the Lorent trial? 81, 82?”

“84,” Margaret said, sizing him up. He looked far too young to know of her cases, but she’d have to see his eyes to be sure.

“How does London’s infamous witch of Wembley end up on the edge of nowhere?” Crowley asked with a bit of flair, leaning back in his seat and nonchalantly throwing an elbow over the seat back.

Margaret bristled at the old nickname. “That was actually my last case.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose in question, and Margaret couldn’t decide if she wanted to brush off the question, or spill her guts.

“Well...” she said, pulling the hand towel out from her apron and using it as a crutch as the flood gates opened. “Shortly after that, I found out I was going to need a double mastectomy...”

Several things happened at once; first, Mr. Fell cooed a very sympathetic “I’m so sorry,” taking her hand and pulling her to sit at the nearest chair with them. Second, Liza dropped what she was doing and made her way into the sitting area, warming Margaret’s heart. No matter what was going on at the time, no matter the intensity of their rows, she never let Margaret tell this story alone.

Margaret smiled at the sudden flood of support, intertwining her fingers with Liza’s where they came to rest on her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s alright, really,” she said, squeezing Liza’s fingers and blushing under all the attention. “Had them reconstructed anyway. From bloody thigh fat, to boot!”

“Which was a shame. Lovely, pillowy thighs, they were,” Liza said deviously.

Margaret felt her cheeks flush and her eyes widen, and she buried her face in her hand.

_“Liza!”_ she scolded into her palm, hearing all three of them laughing. She had to wait for her embarrassment to wane before looking back up at their guests.

“That _wasn’t the point of the story. _ But thank you, Liza, for embarrassing me in front of these nice gentlemen,” Margaret said, only half-serious.

Mr. Fell waved a hand dismissively, and Crowley let out a forced _psh_ sound, leaning in and offering a high-five to Liza, who gave it tentatively, blushing herself now.

“Anyway!” Margaret drawled, forcing them to move on. “It was shortly after I lost the Lorent case that I found out, and I... spiraled. Just got in the Rolls and drove and drove and drove.”

Her voice caught as she recalled the darkness that swallowed her up in those hours alone on dark country roads, considering her posh London life, luxury car, single-serving friends, and life full of secrets and lies. She had no plans on where she was going, or where she would stop. She’d even considered driving right off the cliffs and letting the sea take her broken body down with the car. But, low on gas and rage, she’d pulled into the nearest little village, Knievel-drifted into the first car park she saw, and stomped inside.

“She stormed into this place like a rabid dog,” Liza said, squeezing her shoulder. “Flopped down at one of the tables and just _cursed. _ I mean... would have made the devil blush, cursing...”

The two men grinned, exchanging a look that Margaret knew contained unspoken words, simply by the way it lingered.

“I asked her what I could get her, and she just barked ‘surprise me.’ Now, normally, I don’t let customers speak to me in such a manner, but...”

Her hand shifted to rest on the back of Margaret’s neck.

“I could tell she was having a... bit of a day. So I grabbed a few of the apple tarts I’d just made, and brought them to her.”

“She set them down,” Margaret butted in, a smile already forming. “And I just... started bawling. I mean... ugly crying. Snot, hiccups, the works.”

Judging by the stricken look on both men’s faces, Margaret could tell they were confused by her conflicting words and smile.

“And I asked her what was the matter,” Liza said, a similar smile obvious in her voice.

“And I pulled myself together just long enough to say ‘it looks like a tit!”

The Crowley fellow had been sipping his coffee, and he choked into it, spraying liquid out over the table.

“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at the beads of coffee.

“It’s fine. I had a similar reaction! Liza just _guffawed, _ and I couldn’t understand what could possibly be so funny, until I realized... some strange, fancy London woman had just race car drifted into her car park, stormed in like the cavalry, demanded random pastries, and then started crying because it looked like a boob!”

Both men laughed hard.

Margaret spared a look up at Liza, and was stricken at how she managed to be just as beautiful as that day, ten years ago. She reached back up, grasping her hand again and offering her a warm smile.

“Look at me, prattling on with this sappy story. Did you gents want anything else?” she said, having to wipe an affectionate tear or two from her eyes as she stood back up.

Mr. Fell opened his mouth to respond, but Crowley was quicker.

“Yeah, actually. I wouldn’t mind trying one of those tit tarts.”

The four of them laughed together, and it didn’t go beyond Margaret’s notice that Mr. Fell reached over and tapped his hand over top of Crowley’s a couple of times in a very clearly loving gesture.

Her mood vastly improved, Margaret fetched a pair of impressively boob-shaped apple tarts, and the two men insisted that the two of them join them for a bit of conversation. The men were incredibly easy to talk to, with stories upon stories of traveling, and interesting people, and interesting languages, and yes, learning to drive after ‘far too long.’ They discussed their little vacation rental, and playfully began arguing with each other over the owner’s decorating tastes (Margaret had stayed in that particular cottage after moving here from London, and... she had to agree with Crowley. It was a floral disaster capped in lace/fringe vomit).

The conversation eventually meandered back to the tarts, which Mr. Fell described as ‘divine’ (earning him another knowing glance from his companion), and Liza casually dropped that they made their own jams and fillings from fresh apples picked right from the tree out back. Technically they did not own this tree, but no one was really sure who did, and the townsfolk were happy to ignore this little transgression so long as they got to continue to benefit off of it in the form of wonderful apple treats.

Crowley enthusiastically asked to see it, and the four of them meandered through the cluttered and flour-coated kitchen and out the rear door. Liza and Crowley branched off together, approaching the giant tree well ahead of Margaret and Mr. Fell.

He paused in his trek up the short hill, a small gasp escaping his lips as a hand fluttered over his heart.

“Whatever is the matter, Mr. Fell? Are you quite well?” Margaret asked, leaning in and resting a comforting hand on the gentleman’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes, very much so. Yes,” he muttered, his eyes practically plastered to the vision before them. “He’s just... he’s such a wonderful enigma at times...”

Margaret followed Mr. Fell’s gaze up the hill to where Crowley and Liza had stepped beneath the wondrous green canopy and begun cheerily pointing out the best, ripest, and least worm-eaten apples. Margaret could see what Mr. Fell meant—the shadows of the branches danced across Liza’s face, illuminating those perfect lips that only yesterday had spewed angry words. The deep red fruit mimicked her high cheeks, glowing with wonder and happiness when only yesterday they had colored with rage. The tree’s tall trunk stood high and straight, mirroring Liza’s ramrod-straight and proud spine, held perfectly aloft like the day they’d met. It was a vision, and it managed to shatter any lingering thoughts to an argumentative continuance. None of it mattered, and Margaret wondered how any of it, other than Liza’s pure bliss, ever did.

“Yes, I...” she had to pause to strengthen her voice. “I see what you mean.”

She stayed where she was as Mr. Fell continued up the hill, and she beckoned Liza to join her and leave the two of them alone for a moment.

Liza’s beatific smile as she descended the hill and took her wife by the hand only hardened Margaret’s resolve. She squeezed her hand.

“What were we arguing about again?” she asked, watching as the Crowley fellow rolled up his shirt sleeves to reveal slender forearms, and reached up into the tree to pick an almost Edenic apple and hand it to Mr. Fell, who barked out what sounded like a bittersweet laugh. He took it, holding his companion’s gaze with such devotion that Margaret felt she had to look away. In fact, she did, gazing at the woman she had chosen to gaze upon for the rest of her days and vowing to only do so with adoration from now on, even when in the midst of disagreements.

“You know... I really can’t recall,” Liza said, turning her face up and plucking a short but tender kiss to Margaret’s cheek.

“We’re going to be fine, you know,” Margaret said, turning back to watch as Mr. Fell bit into the Apple he’d been handed, and Crowley held his stomach as he laughed boisterously at some unheard joke.

“We’ll start canning the jams or something and taking them to markets. The kids love that nostalgic shit these days.”

“Oh, Margie, language,” Liza snapped back, but with no real scolding. Her hand rearranged on her wife’s to place a finger between her own.

“Or I could sell the Rolls, get something more suited to our needs,” Margaret offered as the two men meandered through the bows and spoke softly to each other.

“Don’t you bloody dare,” Liza said, offended.

Margaret grinned, but knew, deep down, that she’d sell a thousand cherished cars for just one Liza.

“We’ll be alright,” Liza agreed, before a comfortable silence descended between them.

And indeed they would be, though neither of them knew it yet—for a years-old court case, which hadn’t existed yesterday, was about to be settled with Margaret’s old law firm, and a hefty fraction of a mistrial fund, which hadn’t existed yesterday, was going to be forwarded to one Mrs. Margaret Teska, for her years of hard work on the case.


	27. The South Downs, Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale keeps his word, and the two have a nice, _proper_ holiday. Strange, open conversations ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+, probably, for mentions of sex.

Aziraphale was an angel of his word; for an entire week, neither of them spoke of their healing sessions. Crowley was allowed to sleep until nearly noon every day, roused usually by either a gentle hand or the wonderful aroma of strong coffee. They ate breakfast in the back garden, went for walks on the cliffs and beaches, and went into town to explore the rest of it.

On Tuesday, it was the florist’s, and despite his best efforts, Crowley couldn’t help but take to the boy. While he certainly disagreed with his methods (having watched him coo at and excessively compliment his collection), he couldn’t argue with the results. The ferns were practically curtains, flowing down in droves from their hanging planters and spreading across the floors like so many wedding trains. The blooms were vibrant and flawless, and there wasn’t a leaf spot to be found.

Aziraphale tried to convince Crowley to at least consider changing his tactics, but Crowley merely mumbled something about the ‘delicate nature’ of country plants versus the stubborn city ones, and they agreed to disagree.

On Wednesday they did a bit of bar hopping (as much as can be done in a village that only had two pubs and an inn bar). Nevertheless, they got delightfully tipsy, and had to do a lap down the main thoroughfare before driving home (neither seemed to remember that they could just banish the alcohol from their bloodstreams, or neither felt like doing so).

On Thursday, they went to dinner at the nicest restaurant in town—a little Italian eatery called Bellici’s. The lobster ricotta raviolis were practically sinful, and Crowley’s veal Marsala put the Ritz to shame. But nothing satisfied like the look of pure bliss on Aziraphale’s face when he tried the house-made cannolis. It was so... dare he say, cute? That for a moment Crowley was helpless to do anything but grin stupidly as Aziraphale dabbed at the powdered sugar on his lips with his bright red napkin.

On Friday, having exhausted Crowley’s tolerance for social interaction, the two of them packed a picnic basket, blanket, and several bottles of wine, and made for the cliffs. Crowley barely touched the food they’d brought, preferring to cradle his bottle of Chevalier-Montrachet like an infant. Aziraphale chattered aimlessly about their week; the interesting people in this little nowhere town, the wonderful foods, the incredible views. And while Crowley agreed, he couldn’t help the little bit of rising remorse for the fact that... it had to end. They hadn’t spent this much time, this close to each other, in... well, he couldn’t recall. Actually, he didn’t think they ever had. And it was... _God_, it was nice. Neither of them was pretending anymore, neither was afraid of any Heavenly or Hellish consequences of being found out. They could just _be_, and Crowley couldn’t recall ever being this happy. But they would have to return to London eventually, and they would go their separate ways. Not permanently, obviously, Soho was practically a stone’s throw from Mayfair. But... Crowley had spent every night for two weeks sleeping in a bed with _Aziraphale in it_. It had become a sort of lifeline, a blanket, a crutch, for... someone’s sake. How was he supposed to go back? Drop the angel at his bookshop and _drive away? _How was he supposed to sleep now, alone in his posh, dark flat? Knowing what he had, out here in a cottage in the South bloody Downs?

“My dear, where are you?”

Crowley snapped back to the present, his whole body jerking with the force of it. He turned, finding Aziraphale sitting up worriedly, leaning over his crossed legs and the (frustratingly) tartan picnic blanket to rest a hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, erm, just.. I was just... thinking… is all,” he mumbled, drowning his blessedly inarticulate tongue in criminally expensive wine directly from the bottle. They were both drinking from the bottles, in fact. There really was no need for glasses.

“About what?” Aziraphale asked, reaching for a grape and popping it off the vine. He stilled, though, as he awaited an answer, and _damnit all_, was it endearing, the way it simply hovered there, outside his slightly parted and waiting lips. It was maddening, really, knowing that the angel wanted it, that simple little grape, but would deny himself the gratification in exchange for complete silence to be filled by Crowley’s words. _Chewing. Bloody chewing_. And Aziraphale wasn’t willing to make that sound because he worried he wouldn’t be affording Crowley his full attention. Bloody Hell.

Crowley swallowed a lump forming in his throat.

“Nothing really, just... _stuff...” _

_Oh, wonderful, Crowley. Just brilliant. 6000 years and countless bloody languages, and you go with ‘stuff.’ Wanker_, he scolded himself internally.

Aziraphale just grinned, letting it go as he relaxed back against a palm, popping the grape happily into his mouth and allowing his legs to stretch out on the blanket. The sun had gone down only moments ago, and the bright orange hues it was tossing up over the horizon gave the angel an even more heavenly glow, if that was even possible.

It rose above them in a kind of blended canvas, gentling sloping high above to reveal a dark, cloudless sky, and the soft, light-muted peppering of stars beginning to crop up through the impending darkness.

Crowley grinned, raising a lanky hand and pointing straight above them.

“Well, isn’t that apropos?” he asked.

“What is?” Aziraphale asked, leaning in just so and following Crowley’s finger toward the heavens.

“Serpens. The constellation,” Crowley finished, continuing to point, but turning his head to watch as Aziraphale sought it out, found it, and lit up with recognition. Compared to the stars, Crowley much preferred this sparkling sight.

“Ah!” Aziraphale exclaimed, leaning back onto his haunches and nodding. “So it is.”

“You know…” Crowley began, the bubbling of doubt rising in his throat like acid reflux. He’d never felt acid reflux, but he figured… it felt like demonic doubt crawling up your esophagus. “Serpens is unique…” he continued, quieter now.

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, his tone containing multitudes. Something akin to ‘yes, I know, I’ve read every possible book on the subject, but I’d still very much enjoy hearing what you’ve got to say about it.’

Crowley cleared his throat, suddenly wondering why he brought this up; when finishing this thought was going to expose him as thoroughly as if he’d leapt up and ripped all his clothing off. 

“S’a… er, it’s… the only one split in two. Serpens Caput to Ophiuchus’s left, Serpens Cauda to his right. It… can’t be seen, truly, without… without its other… half.”

He trailed off as Aziraphale’s gaze slowly found his own, wonder and adoration and _understanding_ practically radiating off of him. So much, that Crowley yanked his own bottle to his lips and tipped it up, so he wouldn’t have to look on it any longer.

“You’re absolutely right. It _is_ apropos, my dear,” the angel responded, those multitudes spilling out with every knowing word.

Crowley felt himself shiver, drowning it with more wine as a slightly burdened but nonetheless comfortable silence fell over them for a time.

“May I ask you a question, dear?” Aziraphale asked, his tone positively unreadable this time.

Crowley inhaled and held it as he watched a pair of birds dancing and diving at each other just off the cliff.

“Well... of the millions of questions you’ve ever asked me, angel, _permission_ has never been one of them,” he replied, bringing the bottle to his lips and downing an impressive gulp. This wine was definitely not meant to be _gulped_, but what kind of demon would he be if he did things properly?

“Right. When did you become sexual with the humans?”

Just like that. No dithering, no stuttering around the word choice, no stumbling over the subject matter. As simple as if he’d asked for the time.

Crowley choked on his wine so hard that it sprayed from his mouth like a firehose, and decided to grace his nostrils with its presence as well. He continued to splutter and gag, raising his free hand and placing it over his mouth in an attempt to catch the liquid spilling through like a sieve.

“Oh... yes, right. Suppose I could have handled that with a bit more finesse...” Aziraphale muttered with a flustered smile, reaching as he did into the basket and retrieving a napkin to hold out to his wine-drowned demon.

Crowley waved it away, preferring to miracle away the liquid from his clothes and skin.

“You think?! Bloody Heaven, angel, discorporate me, why don’t you?” he croaked. Aziraphale had the gall to look slightly pleased with himself as he simply blinked innocently back at Crowley. _Bastard. _

“Why?” Crowley asked skeptically. There were really only two possible reasons he was asking this; one, he planned to scold Crowley about his casual relations with Penny. Two, he was genuinely interested in the subject, perhaps even interested in _dabbling_, and... Crowley was wildly unprepared for either scenario.

“Oh... no reason in particular, dear boy. No need to... oh goodness, you’re blushing. I’ve embarrassed you...”

“M’not,” Crowley mumbled, but turned away anyway to stare far too intently at the horizon line.

“It was just that... well, that must have been a... quite a _momentous_ event for you. At least it... it seems like it would be. And given that I don’t in fact know this about you, you didn’t... er, couldn’t... didn’t feel _comfortable_ discussing that with me, at the time. And I know why. I was an angel... _am an angel. _ That’s lust. I probably would have scolded you, or gotten offended, or generally just shrugged it off and made you feel even more alone. And I... well, I recognize that about myself, now anyway. And I want you to know that, even if it’s not something I partake of, you can still... still _talk to me. _If you want. We’re in this together now, more so than we’ve ever been. And... I don’t want you hiding things from me, isolating yourself, just because... just because you’re a demon and _I’m an angel_. Whatever those things even mean, anymore. We’re more in line with humans these days, anyway, so... so I just... I just wanted...”

He paused, and Crowley found that he had turned back and was positively gawking at the angel. It appeared there was an option C, and it would have hurt less if Cupid had impaled him through the heart and spit-roasted him over the deepest flames of Hell.

Aziraphale softened from his fussing, reaching over and resting a hand atop Crowley’s where he was bracing against the blanket. Crowley fixated down on it, where it _burned_ against his skin. Burned like a hot bath, like a warm hearth—shocking and unnerving comfort.

“I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to hide from me, anymore. The darker parts of yourself, at least. I won’t judge you. Well... I _might_ judge you...”

Both of them barked a laugh, breaking a bit of the tension in the cool evening air.

“But I’ll keep it to myself,” Aziraphale finished proudly, his fingers twitching once against the back of Crowley’s hand, and he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed it was in want of being held.

Terrified to actually take it, Crowley pulled his hand back, conjuring up a box of cigarettes and a lighter, and leaned forward to sit hunched and cross-legged. He hadn’t smoked in a while, as modern views of it were beginning to change, and the person he tried to be might care about that, but... the small high might be needed if they really were going to talk about this. And the burn would be a welcome distraction from his rapidly firing nerves.

He placed one in his lips, offering the box to Aziraphale as he lit the tip expertly. The angel declined, simply staring back at him with patient, open eagerness.

“Yeah, it was...” Crowley paused, images creeping back and his skin crawling with the fear he felt that day. He cleared his throat, placing the cigarette back in his lips anxiously. He scoffed, unable to keep his bubbling dark humor from erupting. “It was Great,” he said flatly.

“I’m guessing from your tone, that that’s a joke I don’t understand yet?” asked Aziraphale with a halfhearted smile.

Crowley grinned, nodding as he blew a lungful of smoke from his lips.

“Yeah, angel. Alexander,” he finished, a bit apprehensively.

“Oh. _Oh!_” Aziraphale said, his eyes widening comically with realization. He colored, bashfully meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Do you... er... do you normally prefer... erm, man... shaped... humans?” he asked, clearly uncertain if this was a question he could or should ask.

Crowley smiled bittersweetly to let him know it was fine. “My preference rarely had anything to do with it, angel. Orders are orders, and the first time was no different. _Lord Asmodeus_, Duke of Hell, general sadistic arsehole, and purveyor of all things Lust, commanded me. I did everything I could to force the task off on other humans, but what I failed to realize was, with all the hard work I’d put into my corporation’s… _attractiveness_ at the time, that Alexander had very specific tastes, and they were distinctly _me-flavored.”_

Aziraphale grinned at the little quip, and Crowley took the opportunity to suck in another desperate drag of his cigarette. Then the words just spilled out.


	28. Memories of Macedon, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley recalls the first time he was physically intimate with a human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M  
Trigger warning: Non-consensual sexual touching
> 
> This chapter contains the non-con I initially tagged for, and it gets intense. I set out to make Asmodeus horrifying, and I kinda even scared myself. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. Intense non-consensual touching. Please only read this chapter if you are prepared for it. It's going to be pretty obvious what happened here in the next few, so if you don't feel like reading this one, just skip it.
> 
> That being said, the next few chapters will be flashback sequences. But rest assured, we will return to the South Downs soon enough.

_Crowley stormed down the stone hallway, ignoring the polite greetings from nobles and servants alike. The torch flames seemed to leap at him, creating slithering shadows that closed in around him on every side and reminded him of what he had to do now. _

_Contacting Hell hadn’t been part of the mission. They sent their orders, and they didn’t want to hear from him again until it was done. _

_He huffed with frustration as he stomped into his rooms, tossing aside the light curtain that closed them off from the others. A quick miracle ensured no one would overhear or interrupt. _

_He approached the pedestal and basin, angrily thrusting his hand into the bowl of dried Henbane to his right, crushing it with all the strength of his own distress, and tossing it into the water. _

_Hell didn’t normally communicate through water; thought it was a little too on-the-nose, with Heaven usually utilizing and blessing water for their own bloody, or rather ‘Holy’ purposes. “Too many biblical connotations”, Beelzebub had said. But it was too damn hot for a fire in midsummer Thessaly. _

_Luckily, and to Crowley’s credit, they liked the idea of a poisonous weed, known by many as ‘devil’s sight,’ being used as a conduit. ‘Suitably ominous,’ Beelzebub had said in a slightly bored monotone when Crowley had suggested it. _

_The water in the basin swirled, slowly turning black and bubbling like a rotting marshland. The smell of sulphur rose with the steam, and Crowley crinkled his nose in annoyance, stepping back and waving away the stench. _

_**What,** the basin growled irritably, bubbling and frothing as the words arose. _

_“This isn’t working,” Crowley said, even more irritably. If he could put enough ire into his voice, he’d win the battle of bad attitudes and perhaps come out on top. Or at least get what he wanted; reassignment. _

_ **Be more specific, Crawly, I haven’t got all day.** _

_Crowley itched to snap back at the demon about his name, but ultimately decided against it, as whoever he was speaking to wouldn’t care, wouldn’t call him by his name, and would likely just use it as an opportunity to verbally attack him. _

_“The missive said ‘tempt him to the sins of the flesh. Spread the seeds of carnal delight, and open his eyes to that which he truly desires.’ I did. It’s not working,” Crowley snapped back. _

_There was a pause, during which nothing but the bubbling could be heard over the distant merry voices of the social gathering. _

_ **Well, then you must not be trying hard enough. Our sources say Alexander is a tempestuous young man, prone to all sorts of debauchery and hedonism.** _

_“Trying hard enough?! _Of course I’m trying hard enough!”_ Crowley spat back, offended. While he may have been practiced at skirting by on the bare minimum, or even dexterous misguiding, his skill wasn’t usually in question. “I’ve thrown everything at him; men, women, young, old, thin, not. He’s not interested. He just stares, but never acts.” _

_Another long silence, followed by a suddenly still and unmoving basin. _

_“Well, alright,” Crowley muttered to himself angrily. “Thanks for the help, _goodbye to you too.”

_ “Hello, Crawly.” _

_Crowley nearly leapt out of his skin, whipping around to find a demon he vaguely recognized and vehemently disliked. _

_“Lord… A— Asmodeus,” he greeted, bowing but never taking his eyes from the demon before him. He’d learned a long time ago not to turn his back on this particular Duke. _

_Asmodeus was lounging on Crowley’s bed, propped up on his elbows and staring with knife-sharp precision at the lower demon before him. His human-shaped body was painfully beautiful, in the way all of the world’s most dangerous predators were. Hard, lean muscle made for striking. Long, thin fingers made for gripping, _restraining._ A tall, square frame, made to overpower, made to cage in prey. Beneath his hard, angled brows, a pair of deep, otherworldly black eyes that filled from lid to lid like the very pit he rose from. Every inch of him was made to be desirable, was made to simmer through the molecules around him, was made to be irresistible. _

_And he knew it. _

_Crowley didn’t particularly care for any of the dukes; they were all ruthless, unimaginative, slimy little dicks, but Asmodeus... he was on another level. He worked solely through his assigned sin, and he was extremely good at it. He didn’t use violence (per se), or rude banter, or threats to get what he wanted. He invaded personal space, made himself too comfortable, too familiar. He _implied_ his intentions this way, which was almost worse. A good old threat of a stabbing did wonders, but letting the victim use their own imagination to create scenarios in their own mind? It tugged at their deepest fears, made the threat that much more real, more terrifying. _

_“Explain to me, Crawly. Explain to me _why it isn’t working,”_ Asmodeus drawled, his words like hot, spilled honey. Crowley worked very hard to suppress the shiver, but did take an unavoidable step back as he averted his gaze submissively to the floor. _

_“I— I already said,” he muttered weakly, making sure the words did not come out with any degree of cheek. “I’ve done as the missive said—open his eyes to his true desires, spread the... the carnal... pleasures...” _

_He had to swallow a lump in his throat as Asmodeus sat up on the bed, waving a hand vaguely and miracling a bowl of grapes to his hand. Very suggestively, he began popping them from the vine, and sliding them into his lips delicately. _

_Crowley cleared his throat desperately, and continued. “I’ve spread whatever I could; blowing up women’s togas, spilling oil on men... I’ve done it all. He just stares, says nothing, and continues his conversation.” _

_Asmodeus sighed, biting down dramatically on a grape and accentuating the _pop_ of the skin as it ruptured, letting the juices run from his lips and down his chin before licking it sensuously. Crowley pointedly stared back at the floor. _

_ “Crawly, Crawly, Crawly...” Asmodeus sing-songed, setting the bowl down on the bed sheets and wiping his hands together in preparation for something. _

_He rolled his head up to look at Crowley, dragging his hands down his own thighs until they rested at his knees. “Maybe you’re not spreading the _right_ things for him...” _

_With that, he pushed his own legs apart suggestively, topping it off by rolling his hips up a bit. _

_Crowley couldn’t help letting his mouth fall open, meeting the duke’s eyes as the shock of it hit him like a rock to the chest. _

_“I... I thought the point was to make the humans lust _with each other...”

_Crowley could feel the blood leaving his face and pooling in his heels (oddly, with enough left up north to make his ears burn hot). _

_Asmodeus grinned wickedly, his lips curling with so much intent that Crowley had to look away. _

_“Yes, well,” Asmodeus began quietly, before he was suddenly standing _right in front_ of Crowley, his hips and chest contacting Crowley’s, his head bowed in and his lips raking against Crowley’s neck as he spoke. “Sometimes, if you want something done right, you must _do it yourself...”

_As he finished speaking those words, his tongue laved across Crowley’s jugular vein, and he recoiled hard. He didn’t back up, as it would have been far too obvious a show of weakness, but he leaned back, angling his torso away from the duke and turning his head away intentionally. _

_Asmodeus giggled, the sound like rumbling thunder, bringing with it all the danger of actual thunder. Crowley continued quickly. _

_“It’s just... I—I’ve not...” Crowley reconsidered admitting to such a thing, but it was too late. _

_“Oooooooh,” Asmodeus intoned, the word laced with knowledge and condescension. He turned his head in a bit, taking a terrifying sniff at the long hair curling from Crowley’s temple. This time, Crowley was powerless to stop the shudder. “Oh, I see. Little virgin Crawly, how absolutely _adorable...”

_Asmodeus still hadn’t backed away, and Crowley could feel him in the air between them; hot and suffocating and baring down on Crowley like an entire ocean crashing over him. He had to think of something to deflect, and _quickly...

_“No, I meant... I mean to say that... won’t my... _inexperience_ be a detriment to completing the mission?” _

_Asmodeus flat-out laughed this time, the sound daunting and terrifying and laced with implied threats. _

_“Oh, Crawly. You’ve so much to learn, darling,” he paused at the pet name, raising a hand and brushing Crowley’s hair back over his shoulder. Crowley had to viciously fight off the urge to flee, not just from Asmodeus’s clutches, but from Thessaly entirely, from anywhere remotely close to the Duke of Hell. As it was, he leaned farther away and made his distaste perfectly clear, allowing a slight growl to rumble past his lips. He could feel his claws instinctively extending, taste his fangs as they lowered against his tongue. _

_Asmodeus took the hint, straightening but not retreating from Crowley’s personal space. _

_“Sometimes inexperience is what you _want,”_ he whispered, and Crowley could see in his periphery the duke’s predatory gaze as it rolled up and down his body like ebbing ocean waves. “Makes it so much more... _pleasurable.”

_Crowley uncomfortably cleared his throat, very aware that Asmodeus’s natural penchant for lust had now been pointedly given a target. He allowed himself a small step away, hoping Asmodeus wouldn’t take it for the fear it was. _

_“Well...” Crowley said, attempting to exchange the trembling terror in his voice for bubbling irritability. He was fairly certain he failed, especially when Asmodeus watched his Adam’s apple bob with _hunger_ in his black eyes. “Lust is your forte, not mine. Why don’t you do it?” _

_Asmodeus grinned with genuine amusement. “As much as I would _love_ that...” he used the word in the dirtiest tone possible, “Alexander doesn’t _know_ me, doesn’t _trust_ me. Why would I go through the trouble of installing myself in the court of his advisors when we already have someone there? Waste of effort if you ask me.” _

_Asmodeus locked his hands behind his back and began to pace a half-circle around Crowley, eyeing him as one eyes a horse they’re considering. _

_“Really, I’m quite shocked you haven’t _dabbled,”_ Asmodeus said conversationally, but it was anything but relaxed. It rang like war bells—a pretty sound signifying something terrible. “All this time on Earth, and you’ve never given it a try, never tasted the nectar of the flesh. We were given these bodies by the most skilled craftsmen of Hell, we really should_ enjoy them...”

_Crowley did not like his tone, and liked even less that he had now paced out of view, circling behind Crowley like a prowling lion. Obediently, though, he stayed still. _

_“I... I suppose you could say I’m just very good at getting them to do it with each other,” Crowley tried, desperate to take the focus off of himself. “Which is better, wouldn’t you agree? Instead of guaranteeing a single human soul, I guarantee two.” _

_Asmodeus chuckled again, and it reverberated against Crowley’s spine and made him straighten. _

_“A fair point, Crawly,” Asmodeus said, and Crowley noted a distinct absence of footsteps as the duke stopped behind him. “Although if you’re nervous about it, you could always _practice first...”

_Suddenly the duke’s arms were snaking around Crowley’s waist from behind, his palms pressed flat against the toga covering his upper thighs and working inward. Crowley yelped, his natural instinct to move away from the hands touching him, but it only served to throw his entire body flush against Asmodeus’s. The duke pulled against Crowley, keeping him trapped there even as he squirmed to break free. _

_“Mmm, I like it when they _struggle...”_ Asmodeus purred, his lips nuzzling at Crowley’s neck once more. _

_He felt like every inch of his skin was on fire. He wanted... _needed_ to get away from the demon pressed against him, feeling the thrumming pulse of lust coming off of Asmodeus as it invaded his aura, invaded his _body_ like thousands of red-hot pokers. _

_The word ‘no’ formed on his lips, but died just as quickly—vivid, vicious images flashing through his mind of the last time he said no to a Duke. _

_“Mmmmmm, you want to tell me no, don’t you?” Asmodeus hummed, beginning to sway back and forth, like some kind of macabre dance, keeping Crowley pinned as he did so. Crowley could feel the evidence of Asmodeus’s endowment against his backside, and panic began to set in like rolling black clouds in his veins. Desperation warred with his survival instincts, making a buzzing battlefield of his corporeal body. _

_“I c—can’t,” Crowley stuttered, turning to his age-old knowledge of what he needed to say to subdue the Duke. His hands hovered, stark still, beneath Asmodeus’s wrists, burning to push them away but not quite daring. “Can’t say no. Not to you.” _

_Crowley felt the heat of it as Asmodeus’s lips stretched into a thin smile against his jugular vein, which he was sure was hammering. _

_“Sure you can,” Asmodeus grumbled, his lips moving against Crowley’s skin like bugs. “In fact _I encourage it…”

_Asmodeus halted his swaying, using the momentum to pull Crowley’s hips back against his, taking a deep, shuddering breath of Crowley’s hair. _

_Crowley’s resolved snapped. “No, Asmodeus,” he barked, trying to make it stern but knowing it came out afraid. He tried to shove an elbow back to push the duke away, but Asmodeus merely rearranged, bringing his arms over Crowley’s and caging them down against his ribs, behind which his pointless heart was _hammering._ The duke’s hands returned to his hips, one of them trailing down toward his groin. _

_“You _sure, Crawly?” _he whispered darkly, his voice thick and heavy. He palmed at Crowley’s crotch, causing him to yelp and again attempt to jolt back and away. This only forced him against Asmodeus’s hips harder, and the duke positively _moaned_ against Crowley’s ear. “I could show you how to _move...”

_He curled his hips against Crowley’s arse, his palm pressing harder. _

_“Show you how to _tease...”

_Crowley felt teeth on his earlobe, and began to see red. He wondered vaguely if holy water on his skin would be worse—worse than unwanted touches all over him, worse than being _invaded_ like this. _

_“I could make you _scream...”

_Asmodeus’s fingers curled in to cup at Crowley’s sex, and the rest of his frayed resolve shattered. _

_His wings erupted from his back, extending with all the power he could muster, which in his current state, was a considerable force. Enough to send Asmodeus stumbling back, nearly tripping over himself as he collided with the pedestal and water basin, sending it sprawling and spilling with a monstrous clatter. _

_“I said no!” Crowley snapped, spinning around to face the duke and keeping his wings outstretched like a threatened bird, puffing itself up. He knew it wasn’t much, knew Asmodeus severely outranked him and could simply take whatever he wanted. He knew that saying no to him was tantamount to treason, but the overriding panic in his mind had let him do little else. He didn’t know what drowning felt like, as he didn’t need to breathe, but he was willing to guess it felt like the duke’s hands on him, his breath on him, his _intentions_ on him. _

_Asmodeus straightened, smiling just a little too wide to be natural. _

_“Suit yourself, Crawly,” Asmodeus drawled, locking eyes with Crowley and making a show of licking the hand he’d had on his crotch. “Good luck with Alexander. He’s _very important_ to our lord. Our intelligence suggests that, with the right _push,_ he will become quite the warlord. Let’s hope you’re that _right push. _Because you _know _what happens if you’re _not.”

_With that, the duke vanished, and Crowley’s knees immediately gave out. He hit the stone floor hard, hyperventilating and rocking, feeling his feathers tremble like the rest of him. How he was supposed to pull himself together and get this done... _

_He stayed there, alone and shivering on the floor for an indiscriminate amount of time, trying frantically to wrangle back his fragmented autonomy. _

_Ultimately, it was the thought of Asmodeus returning that spurred him to gulp a few deep breaths, and push desperately to his terribly shaking legs. He chanted to himself quietly, making his way to the doorway; _

_“Go, just go. Keep going. If you just keep going, it’ll be fine. Just get it done. _Get it done.”

_He muttered this to himself like a mantra as he hid his wings and paced blindly, _numbly_ through hallways and rooms, back to Alexander of Macedonia. _


	29. Memories of Macedon, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley recalls the man Alexander was, in stark contrast to Duke Asmodeus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

_Crowley stomped back into the gathering room, ignoring the looks of a few startled Thessalians as his tempestuous presence tore through the room like a hot knife. He waved at one of the servants, and when it failed to get the boy’s attention, he snapped repeatedly at him._

_“Oi. You. Servant. Wine. _Now,”_ he growled, approaching the pillows Alexander was reclining on and flopping down hard next to him. They weren’t this familiar with each other, hardly ever sat next to each other, but Crowley couldn’t be bothered to care—not about how Alexander would react, not about how the generals would react. He could still _feel_ Asmodeus on his skin... _in his skin; _the unwelcome touches ghosting beneath the flesh like bugs crawling through his veins. The tiny hairs on his arms stood on end, the lengths of his fingers trembling as they itched to push away hands that weren’t even on him anymore. _

_He could sense the stares, namely Alexander’s as the servant approached with a tray baring a carafe of wine and an empty drinking cup. The servant made to pour him a serving with a dainty flourish, but Crowley leaned forward, plucked the cup and the carafe from the tray, and nodded the servant away irritably. _

_“You can leave this with me, thanks. Save you the trouble of coming back a thousand times,” he snapped. _

_The servant looked questioningly at Alexander, whose nod was visible in Crowley’s periphery as he filled his cup to overflowing, and downed the entire thing. _

_The burn was nice; it felt cleansing, in a way. Like he was cauterizing Asmodeus’s caresses. _

_He swallowed a lump in his throat, filling the cup again and bringing it to his lips with trembling hands. _

_“Antonius...” Alexander greeted cautiously, as one hushes a spooked horse. _

_“Crowley,” Crowley snapped. He didn’t care if the Macedonians would find it odd, didn’t care if he’d put a great deal of work into his persona. He couldn’t bear to be called a name that_ wasn’t his _even a single time more. _

_ “What?” Alexander asked, finally sitting up from his lounging to sit cross-legged next to Crowley. _

_“Crowley. You can call me Crowley,” he said, swallowing the rest of his second cup. He could see Alexander worriedly studying the amount he was consuming, obviously warring with wanting to say something about it. _

_ “That’s... that’s an odd name,” the young man said, and Crowley could feel him staring intently at the side of his face. It was probably harmless and curious, but it felt too much like Asmodeus. The unyielding intensity, the longing, the _desire.

_Crowley shivered, filling his cup a third time. _

_“Sure is,” he replied quickly, drinking again. _

_“Antoni—_Crowley...” _Alexander said, and his tone was reserved. Muted. Personal. “Are you... _alright?”

_Crowley watched a man and woman across the room pressing against each other, speaking in hushed tones almost directly into one another’s mouths. Crowley himself had influenced those two, in his early efforts to inspire lust in the king by surrounding him with it. Only an hour ago, he would have felt pride at the sight. Now… he only felt nauseous._

_It made him shiver, the bugs still rampaging through his veins, localized to his thighs where Asmodeus had held him, _touched him.

_He shook his head of the images, finding that they merely burned into his eyelids as they closed. He raised his glass again. _

_“Fine, wonderful, _spectacular. _Why do you ask?” he said, unhappy with the amount he’d taken in on the last gulp and raising his cup once more. _

“Crowley...” _Alexander cooed, resting his hand gently against Crowley’s mid-thigh to get his attention. _

_Except it didn’t register as gentle. Suddenly it was Asmodeus, pressing against him, _forcing him to be still, _touching, caressing, _burning.

_Crowley dropped his cup, violently grasping Alexander’s hand and throwing it viciously off with a barely stifled growl. _

_He only realized the seriousness of what he’d done when the hammering pulse in his ears subsided enough to reveal that the entire room had gone deathly silent; he’d touched the king... violently... _grabbed him and shoved him away. _Even Alexander’s most trusted generals refrained from touching him, refused to sully his royalty with their flesh. _

_“Oh... _ I... my lord, I—”_ Crowley practically begged as he somehow managed to rein in the last remaining escaping tendrils of his sanity. _

_“Out,” Alexander said simply but authoritatively. “All of you. Everyone but him.” _

_He stood suddenly, punctuating his statement forcefully and watching as every person scampered to fulfill his request. Within ten seconds, they were alone. _

_Millennia of suffering the consequences of his own fiery attitude made Crowley desperately backtrack as he looked up at Alexander, hands thrown up in desperate, pleading surrender. _

_“My lord, I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry. _Truly, I’ve no idea what came over me, please forgive my imp—”_

_“Crowley,” Alexander said in a monotone, his authority needing neither volume nor boisterousness to be understood. Crowley quieted, halting his breathing as he waited for the hammer to fall—waited for the inevitable punishment. _

_Alexander knelt before him, making eye contact unavoidable. _

_“It’s alright,” Alexander said quietly, pointedly _not touching _Crowley, and instead watching him intensely. “You simply appeared... _shaken._ It is I who should apologize, if I made you uncomfortable. Sincerely... _I am sorry,_ if I overstepped my bounds. I only wish to help...” _

_The lump in Crowley’s throat returned, but this time with pleasant shock. _

_He took a moment to truly consider the young King before him; a lad of only twenty, he’d been thrust into the pressures of ruling at a mere sixteen, but had flourished resplendently. Like Phillip before him, he ruled with a heavy hand and merciless conquering. He hardly ever showed pity to those who opposed him, hardly ever showed restraint to those who angered or betrayed him. Which was why his kind eyes and gentle demeanor had thrown Crowley off his game so hard it gave him whiplash. _

_“No, it’s... I’m... that’s not...” Crowley stuttered around the lump in his throat, having to pause and swallow it. _

_Alexander grinned as one does at a frightened child—his lips laced with understanding, his brows drawn together with empathy. _

_He stood, taking with him the cup Crowley had dropped, depositing it into a wash bin in the corner of the room before retrieving a new one. He returned, seating himself once more to Crowley’s right, yet again taking care to avoid touching him as he picked up the carafe and filled the cup. His eyes rose to study Crowley as he handed it over, and it felt just as invasive as Asmodeus’s had, but in a completely contradictory way. _

_Where Asmodeus’s gaze was demanding and suggestive, stripping Crowley of his agency and leaving him exposed and vulnerable, Alexander’s was... unyieldingly mellow and inviting. It sought to understand, to _comfort._ And it was so unexpected that Crowley simply stared at him, taking the cup but merely holding it in a shaking hand as the King’s eyes roved over him. _

_“I don’t know you well, Crowley,” Alexander said, reaching for his own cup and finally sparing Crowley the sun-like intensity of his eyes. The king filled his cup slowly, careful to pour with delicate precision, before looking back up and locking onto the demon once again. “I know that you are relatively new to my advisors, and you have a reputation for... how shall I put this delicately... mischief?” _

_Finally, Crowley was able to smile. It felt almost foreign, but it was a welcome rupture in the tension permeating to his very core. “General Hephaestion...” _

_Alexander reacted to that name when he spoke it; visibly subduing his reaction and instead pointing every one of Crowley’s searchlights at it. That must be why... that must be the point of the mission. _‘What he truly desires...’

_Alexander cleared his throat in an attempt to appear casual, and Crowley let it slide. _

_“He thinks that you are a spy. That you were sent here by Thebes to infiltrate my armies and report my movements back to my enemies.” _

_“Does he, now?” Crowley asked, happy to hear his characteristic sass returned to his tone. _

_Alexander smiled, revealing rows of beautiful teeth and an expression that truly shined with mirth. _

_“That, he does. Although I told him ‘I think I would know. I think he would have tried harder to get close to me, if he were a spy...” _

_Alexander’s tone flattened, and if Crowley wasn’t mistaken, his own heart might be trying to claw its way up his esophagus. _

_“Are you? Are you spying on me, Crowley?” Alexander asked, his face now unreadable and his tone hard. _

_Crowley swallowed the blasted lump in his throat again, vowing to extricate it by force later if he must. _

_He considered his words carefully, as his answer could bring about swift discorporation. And he was absolutely positive he would be greeted at acquisitions by one curious Duke wishing to know how it happened. _

_The shiver was unavoidable, so Crowley looked away from Alexander, casting his eyes down at the floor submissively. _

_“I’m not sure what to say, my King. No, I am not a spy for Thebes, or any other enemy of yours. But that’s just what a spy would say, isn’t it? I don’t know how to make you trust me, don’t know how to shake off what’s been said about me. And honestly... I don’t have the energy to try. I... I’m _so tired_ of trying so hard, just to fall on my face at every turn. It’s exhausting. So I suppose... if Hephaestion thinks I’m a spy, if _you do... _then so be it. At least I can stop... _trying.”

_Crowley stared down into the deep red ripples curving over the surface of his wine, but didn’t crave it, at this moment. He actually felt sick, suddenly, which was a new thing to feel given that he’d never thrown up in his three thousand years of life. _

_He wasn’t aware of how long had passed with Alexander simply staring at the side of his face, but finally the King broke the silence. _

_“Have you met my stallion, Bucephalus, Crowley?” Alexander asked, and Crowley furrowed his brows at the sudden 180˚ turn the conversation had taken. _

_He didn’t trust his voice, so he simply shook his head ‘no.’ _

_“A magnificent beast. Black as night, and more powerful than twenty men. He is a spectacle to behold, the way he moves, the way he struts. He was wild and unmanageable in the beginning, but he settles with me. He knows I would never hurt him, knows this because I prove it to him every day. He supports me into the bloodiest of battles, fearless and brave beyond measure. But... he is face shy.” _

_Alexander paused, and rearranged on the pillows to uncross his knees and shift them to the side, which set him more at an angle leaning towards Crowley. _

_Crowley tensed again, his hands tightening on his cup and making the liquid begin to slosh. _

_“He is face shy because of something done to him in the past. I can see it; if I move to pet his nose, brush his forelock. There is a moment of panic in which he pulls away and his eyes go wide, as if asking me if I plan to do to him what they did. And I have learned to spot this reaction, learned to avoid it, if I can. Because I don’t ever want him to have to think that of me...” _

_The King’s voice trailed off, and he leaned a bit forward; his body placement a request to be met halfway, his dipped head asking for eye contact. _

_Reluctantly, Crowley looked up at him. _

_“The way you reacted. Earlier. When I touched you. It was very similar to Bucephalus. And I am very sorry. Both for having made you uncomfortable, and for whatever was done to you to make you react that way. Really, I am.” _

_Crowley hadn’t realized his mouth was hanging open until Alexander laughed, pointing. _

_“Careful, the flies will nest in there,” the King said jovially, and Crowley barked out a laugh that released his tension, and snapped his lips closed. He’d had flies in his mouth precisely _one time,_ and while it had actually made the Prince of Demons laugh for the first time…_ever,_ he wasn’t looking for a repeat performance._

_Alexander straightened, removing himself from Crowley’s space and reaching for his wine. He looked around the room in that way men have, that signifies they are ready to change the subject. Like he was looking for something to jump out, yelling ‘I’m interesting conversation fodder!’ _

_He finally looked back at Crowley as he took a deep gulp of wine, and his brows angled in. _

_“You have very strange and beautiful eyes, Crowley,” Alexander said earnestly. One hand moved up instinctively to brush Crowley’s long hair aside, but he stilled in the space between them, his handsome features twisting into worry. _

_“May I?” he asked, keeping his hand suspended in the air between them. Crowley wasn’t sure what about his demeanor comforted him, told him that it was ok to say no. That, despite being the king, despite always getting what he wanted, Alexander would accept if he said no, and drop his hand. And for this reason alone, Crowley nodded tentatively ‘yes.’ _

_The way he brushed Crowley’s hair aside was reminiscent of the way people curl a single finger into the palm of an infant—unimaginably gentle and careful, afraid they could break it. His fingers moved the curls back and away from Crowley’s eyes with a motion that bordered on _reverence._ His long, light fingers curled inward, trailing against Crowley’s scalp as the strands caught between his fingers. Alexander paused like this, nearly cradling Crowley’s head as his eyes snapped back and forth to study every minuscule difference in Crowley’s own. _

_“They are like that of a snake...” Alexander said, the pads of his fingers twitching subconsciously against Crowley’s scalp and making it increasingly difficult to not press against them and close his eyes. _

_Crowley grinned, repressing a multitude of sarcastic comments. They would ruin this... _whatever this was, _and he desperately didn’t want that. _

_“Were you born with them?” Alexander asked, this time intentionally curling his fingers against Crowley’s scalp, and this time Crowley couldn’t avoid the long, relaxed blink that followed. _

_“As such, yes,” he replied. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. But then again, he was encouraged to lie, so what did it matter? _

_“Do they... change anything? Is your vision the same as everyone else’s?” Alexander asked. _

_“Dunno. Never been anyone else,” Crowley replied, to which Alexander smiled genuinely. “But I do see perfectly well in the dark.” _

_“Is that so?” Alexander asked, his smile slowly falling into something else, something resembling curiosity. Something that said ‘I’d like to be in the dark with you, see what you see...’ _

_Crowley was suddenly very aware of the creeping buzz from chugging three glasses of wine, finding Alexander’s outline blurring pleasantly. Or was Alexander trembling? _

_“You know, the Egyptians worshipped snakes,” the King said quietly, keeping his hand where it was and freeing his other by setting his wine down on the stone floor past the pile of pillows they were seated on. When it was free, he brought it up to Crowley’s other temple, raking his fingers through the hair there as well and caging Crowley’s face in his hands. It didn’t feel like a cage, though, to Crowley. It felt like pampering, like veneration, like respect. Crowley couldn’t help but close his eyes and let it wash over him, quelling those bugs in his veins, cooling the burn Asmodeus’s touch had left behind. _

_Of course he knew this about the Egyptians, in fact he had been the one to ensure they did worship snakes (although it had twisted eventually, as these things tended to do, to turn the major snake God into an evil one whose purpose was to attack the sun God Ra and stop the day from coming). But they had still used the imagery of snakes in the headdresses and tombs of royalty, which he supposed was alright. _

_But to say any of this would be counter-productive, so Crowley simply lied by tentatively shaking his head no, eyes still blissfully closed. The movement dragged Alexander’s fingers against his scalp once more, and the sensation was _heavenly_ (Crowley would have chastised himself for thinking so, but as it was, he was too comfortable to care). _

_“Did they?” Crowley felt himself ask sheepishly, having to send extra effort to make his tongue work, to make it behave like a human’s. It was desperately itching to flick out into the air, taste the torch smoke, the fragrant oils, the _relaxation._ Alexander muttered a muted affirming ‘mmhmm’, curling his fingers and utilizing his fingernails, and _oh_...Crowley could fall asleep so easily like this. _

_“They appreciated the snake’s strength and used it as a symbol of fertility,” Alexander said in an almost-whisper. _

_Crowley smiled a closed-lipped grin, continuing to keep his eyes closed and fighting the urge to let himself drift to sleep. “And do you? Worship the snake, that is?” he asked just as quietly. _

_ “No,” Alexander replied, his hands pausing their ministrations. “But I’d like to. If he’ll let me...” _


	30. Memories of Macedon, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Explicit
> 
> Explicit sexual content, as well as some dubious consent going on. Crowley likes what is happening, and is given plenty of opportunities to back out, but it boils down to this: would he be doing this if Asmodeus hadn't threatened him, and that answer is no.

_Crowley’s eyes snapped open, finding Alexander’s brilliant grey eyes fixated on him. He looked somehow both boldly confident and terrified. He was breathing rather hard, and Crowley could feel his hands beginning to tremble in the depths of his hair. He was waiting, asking something with his knife-edged silence; like he had skidded to a halt at the edge of a great cliff, and was slowly teetering over as he waited for someone to grab him, pull him back. _

_Swallowing that bloody lump once more, Crowley nodded ‘yes’ almost undetectably. _

_Alexander leaned in, using his hands in Crowley’s hair to tilt his head delicately as he pressed their lips together. He had surged forward with a bit too much momentum, and Crowley was forced onto his back on the pillows, Alexander crashing on top of him. Crowley didn’t try to catch himself, but he dropped the cup of wine, and it spilled onto the nearby pillows. The king giggled into the kiss, rearranging and removing a hand from Crowley’s hair to prop himself to the left of his shoulder. The other, he kept buried in the demon’s ginger locks, fingers wrapping around the back of his skull and pulling his lips against his own harder. His leg extended over Crowley’s right, working between his thighs as he rolled further on top of him. _

_Alexander’s lips were a small, focused burst of the man himself: hungry yet gentle, forceful yet careful. His tongue broke through Crowley’s lips and teeth like a charging cavalry, but once inside, it danced with Crowley’s pleasantly. _

_Crowley wasn’t sure about this kissing business; bit too wet and strange for his tastes, but... it wasn’t altogether awful. Alexander was mostly restrained about it, until he pulled back, retracting his tongue and taking Crowley’s lower lip in his teeth very carefully. _

_A flash of heat went down Crowley’s spine as he did, starting at his neck where Alexander’s hand was tangled in his hair and traveling like lightning down every languid, snakelike vertebrae and making him squirm, also snakelike. It pooled in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that there was still work to be done. _

_He closed his eyes hard as he noted Alexander’s knee drawing up, up, _up..._ following the curve of Crowley’s muscled thigh. He focused in on the part of his human-ish brain, finding the location of his (thus far) dormant libido. He’d kept the anatomy around for a while now, togas being the unreliable garment that they were in a windy environment, but he’d never _used it.

_He finally raised his hands, resting them gently on either side of Alexander’s warm neck, feeling his pulse hammering wildly beneath the smooth skin. He pushed him back slightly, separating their lips to take a deep, steadying inhale. _

_Then he flipped the switch. _

_The lightning that had pooled in his stomach shocked outward, electrifying every inch of Crowley’s skin. He whined against the pleasure-pain of it, his back arching up against Alexander as his heart began thumping faster, sending blood rushing... _places._ His ears felt hot, his fingertips tingled, and... the organ between his legs began to pulse and swell. At first it was strange and uncomfortable, but upon seeing this reaction, Alexander pressed his thigh up just that extra few inches. The contact was _unbelievable, _and Crowley yelped, unsure if he wanted to squirm away or toward it. It was all just... _so much.

_“Sensitive, aren’t you?” Alexander cooed with a smile, rolling his hips and dragging his thigh up Crowley’s now very hard cock. _

_Crowley bit his lip, his hands flying down to grip Alexander’s hips hard and stop his moving. _

_“Stop, please... just... _stop for a moment...” _Crowley begged, the flood of unfamiliar and intense sensations making his vision nearly black out and his pointless heart slam uncomfortably in his chest. He couldn’t deny that it felt good... _very good._ But that was the terrifying part. He was already having trouble concentrating—keeping his tongue human-shaped, keeping the odd hiss from escaping, _keeping his wings hidden._ What would it be like when it got worse... or better... _ whatever.

_“Are you scared?” Alexander whispered, his hips staying still but his fingers carding through Crowley’s hair in the gentle way he already knew he liked. He leaned in close and pressed chaste kisses along Crowley’s jaw as he afforded him the time he needed to answer. It really just distracted him worse, jumbling up his thoughts and ditching all of the ingrained, Hellish reasons why admitting to being scared was a _very _bad idea. _

_“Yeah,” Crowley croaked, suddenly incredibly overwhelmed by the scent of olive oil and lavender in Alexander’s gorgeous sandy blonde hair, the tickle of it against his neck. _

_“It’s really not that different than it is with a woman, I don’t think,” Alexander whispered directly into Crowley’s ear, following it by taking his earlobe in his teeth. _

_Crowley’s hands faltered as he did, allowing Alexander’s hips to drop back down and contact his own, and he _keened.

_“I’ve, er... you see, I don’t really... know...” he stammered, afraid of admitting, once again, that he was laughably out of his element. _

_Alexander pulled back slightly, searching Crowley’s eyes with a frightening intensity. _

_“You’ve... never?” he asked, his fingers moving in his hair again, massaging tight little circles and making something twisted and uncomfortable in Crowley’s chest release. He relaxed a bit, nodding ‘no.’ _

_“Never. Not women, not men,” he admitted, swallowing that damn lump again and adding it to his shit list. Alexander’s words fell into place as he did, and he turned his head like a curious puppy. “Wait, you think? You haven’t...” _

_“Not with a man,” Alexander said sheepishly. “Wanted to for... well, for a very long time, though. Always, I think...” _

_Crowley relaxed more, reassured by the knowledge that this was new to Alexander too, perhaps just not in the same way. _

_“We can... stop, if you want,” Alexander offered, but the way his hand balled slightly in Crowley’s hair told him he desperately didn’t want that. “Or...” he went on, leaning in and kissing Crowley’s lips again, hard and passionate. “We can figure it out together?” he asked hopefully after pulling back. _

_Crowley stared up into Alexander’s grey-blue eyes, their unwavering gentleness reminiscent of a certain angel he kept running into. And they evoked much the same reaction in Crowley; intimidation, slight fear, but also acute curiosity and wonder. _

_“No, we can... we can keep going,” Crowley whispered, feeling his voice shaking like the rest of him. He was wary of making the decision so definitively, not knowing what to expect, and wasn’t sure he wouldn’t change his mind. Asmodeus was a horrifying motivator to just bare it, but... even that wasn’t enough to make him certain that he could handle it. “But, er... if I can’t... later, I mean..., if I... don’t...” _

_Alexander grinned, carding his hand through Crowley’s hair once more, this time with very deliberate reverence. _

_“Shhhhhh, of course. If ever you need to stop, just tell me. I will,” he said, placing a sweet, lips-only kiss on Crowley’s. _

_Slowly, unsure if he’d made the right call, Crowley released Alexander’s hips and allowed his weight to come back down on his sex. The pressure once again made him see stars, and he closed his eyes hard, dragging his hands up awkwardly to rest on Alexander’s ribs. _

_“Don’t close your eyes,” Alexander asked quietly, his hand dragging out of Crowley’s hair, over his shoulder, flattening across his chest, and finally meandering down over his hip. “They’re beautiful, I want to see them.” _

_Crowley felt Alexander’s fist ball into his toga where it rested over his thigh, sliding it up. Crowley tensed, forcing his eyes open and knowing he likely looked terrified. _

_The toga dragged ever higher as Alexander held his gaze unwaveringly, then Crowley felt him release it and slip his hand beneath. _

_Whatever he’d expected, whatever he _thought _it would feel like when Alexander’s hand wrapped around the base of him tugged gently, he’d wildly underestimated it. It was unimaginably intense, the lightning pooled in his chest firing off again and making Crowley’s toes curl and his hands ball into fists in the toga draping off Alexander’s ribs. A desperate sound erupted from his lips, completely unbidden, and he wondered absently at what a complete, un-demonic _mess _he must look. _

_“You like it?” Alexander asked with a smirk, obviously already knowing the answer as he leaned in and kissed, tongued, _sucked _at Crowley’s neck and collar bone. He began moving his hand in a steady rhythm, and Crowley couldn’t help but slam his eyes shut again as the pleasure began to mount with every stroke. Completely without his knowledge or consent, his spine arched up off the pillows, his hips shoving up into Alexander’s hand. The king giggled triumphantly against Crowley’s collar bone, his breath ghosting over the wet marks he’d left there and sending a tingle over Crowley’s skin. _

_Alexander used the opportunity that Crowley’s lifted spine provided, removing his hand from his cock, which prompted another unbidden whine, and gripping the toga at his thigh and pushing it all the way up to Crowley’s sternum. _

_“Sit up for me?” Alexander asked, leaning back to a kneeling position, still straddling Crowley’s right thigh. Lust-drunk and nearly delirious, Crowley merely did as he was told, sitting up and groaning as the movement shifted his achingly hard cock. _

_Alexander gripped the bottom of the bunched-up toga and pulled, yanking it up and off of Crowley, leaving him completely naked. _

_Alexander made no attempt to hide it as his eyes raked down Crowley’s body. _

_“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he drawled, his voice dark and hungry, but not predatory. It was a kind of hunger that made Crowley want to feed him. _

_Alexander shifted forward, splaying a hand out between Crowley’s pectorals and pushing him gently to lie back on the pillows. _

_It felt vulnerable and exposing, lying beneath Alexander and completely at his mercy, but the king didn’t let him feel that way for long. He shifted his knees back a bit, propping both hands on either side of Crowley’s ribs and lowering his lips back to his collar bone. He trailed a line of kisses inward, licking down his sternum in a lazy semicircle that landed his lips on a nipple. _

_The flash of tickling sensitivity that jolted through Crowley at the contact made him yelp as both his hands flew to bury in Alexander’s plush blonde curls. _

_ “I am going to _worship you,”_ Alexander practically growled as he worked his way to the other nipple, harkening back to their earlier conversation. Or it would have, if Crowley’s brain wasn’t completely short-circuiting. _

_“Every inch of you,” Alexander continued, flicking his tongue over this nipple as well and making Crowley whimper. “Every patch of skin I can get my hands on...” _

_His hands wrapped beneath Crowley to splay out against his lower back and arch him up against his waiting lips. “My mouth on...” he mumbled as he traced every abdominal muscle torturously slowly with his lips, his tongue, reducing Crowley to a desperate, writhing puddle of ecstasy. _

_Rational thought had abandoned him, Hell, thought in general, rational or otherwise. All he could recognize was a building, burning _need,_ his whole body trembling and aching for more. The last thing he registered thinking was if this much pleasure could discorporate him; feeling his pointless heart slamming in his pointless ears, his pointless lungs burning as he gulped down pointless air. _

_Then Alexander was taking his cock slowly into pursed lips, and Crowley practically screamed. His legs contracted upward, curling around where Alexander was leaning down between them. One of Crowley’s hands abandoned the blonde curls to cover his own mouth and stifle the animalistic noises that escaped as Alexander pushed his mouth down his entire length. _

_A new sensation flared through Crowley’s cock as Alexander _sucked,_ his cheeks pulling in and encasing Crowley in unbearable heat and pressure. _

“Oh, fuck!” _Crowley gasped against his hand, his other fisting hard in Alexander’s curls. _

_Alexander hummed his appreciation of the reaction, and the vibration almost made Crowley cry out again. _

_He focused on breathing as Alexander began to move, bobbing his head deliciously slowly all the way to tease the tip with his tongue before taking all of him again. Breathing would actually be too weak a word for what Crowley was doing; panting... _hyperventilating _would be more accurate. _

_“A—Alexander...” he begged, feeling the pooling heat in his stomach again, this time much more intense. “Alexander, stop, I...” _

_Alexander’s head popped off of him quickly, and Crowley whimpered at the loss, feeling that churning heat in his groin settle slightly with the lack of stimulation. _

_“You want to stop?” Alexander asked, wiping at his lips and staring at Crowley with anxious worry. _

_Thought returned to Crowley suddenly, and he realized that Alexander thought he meant _stop.

_“No, I just... I was going to—you know. And I’m not ready to be done,” he said bashfully. _

_Alexander’s smile was genuine, the worry melting away to reveal rather smug contentment. _

_ “Right,” he said, leaning back to push to his feet. Crowley almost complained, until Alexander grabbed the bottom hem of his toga and ripped it vehemently up and off. _

_Alexander’s body was actually much like Crowley’s own; lean, muscled, and almost statuesque. His erection bobbed between his legs, leaking precum. _

_He took a moment to let Crowley admire him, basking in it before he took a single step to the left, picking up a quartino of olive oil. _

_He returned to kneel between Crowley’s legs, tilting the quartino over his right hand and coating his fingers in oil. After setting the jar down off of the pillows, he prowled forward, bracing himself with his oil-free hand and sliding his other down between Crowley’s legs and out of sight. _

_“For someone who claims to have never done this before, you seem to know what you’re doing,” Crowley said, not feeling any of the confidence that came out with his voice. _

_“Said I haven’t _done_ any of it, didn’t say I’ve never_ discussed it,”_ quipped Alexander confidently, leaning over Crowley and kissing him again. Crowley could feel Alexander’s oil-slicked fingers as they trailed down the underside of his erection and over his balls, stopping to tease at his entrance. _

_Alexander pulled back from the kiss, resting his forehead against Crowley’s, his panting breaths brushing over his lips and nose. _

_ “This may hurt,” he whispered, his eyes meeting Crowley’s and holding steady. Crowley felt a pang of fear, but the brilliant sapphire eyes unyieldingly meeting his were an anchor of reassurance. _

_Unable to respond, he simply nodded. _

_Alexander distracted him with another biting kiss to his lower lip, sliding a single finger inside him. _

_He whimpered, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back as he felt himself stretch and clench around Alexander’s finger. _

_“Relax,” Alexander muttered into Crowley’s exposed neck as his finger began to pump slowly. Crowley followed his instruction, letting out a shaky sigh as he released the tension in his lower body, his legs falling slightly more open as he did. _

_“Good,” Alexander praised, and Crowley wasn’t expecting to react so positively, but it happened regardless; his cheeks warming and reddening, a bashful smile spreading his lips. _

_A second finger was added, and this time Crowley didn’t tense. It felt strange—his muscles stretching in a foreign way, but it wasn’t bad. _

_When Alexander added the third, it bordered on painful, and Crowley yelped, his hands flying to the king’s shoulders and gripping them so tightly he was sure they would bruise. _

_Alexander stopped thrusting them, allowing Crowley to acclimate to them while kissing and licking at his neck. _

_“Alright?” Alexander asked warmly, but his throat caught, presumably with the effort of restraining himself. _

_“Mmhmm” Crowley squeaked weakly, and it sounded just as unsure as he felt. _

_Alexander clearly noted the hesitation, and as such began moving his fingers again _very slowly, _and with time, Crowley relaxed again. The fingers inside him curled forward on the third thrust, and contacted something inside Crowley that made his entire body convulse, the subdued heat that had long ago cooled suddenly igniting within him. He cried out, arching his back again and rocking his hips down against Alexander’s fingers. _

_“Hmmm, _there you are...”_ Alexander cooed knowingly, curling his fingers against the same spot again and nearly making Crowley scream. The heat and pressure built back up rapidly as Alexander continued, until Crowley couldn’t stand it. _

_“Fuck, _shit, shit, yesss... Alex—Alexander. Keep going,”_ he begged desperately, knowing how weak and pathetic he sounded but absolutely unable to care. _

_Alexander grunted, and suddenly his fingers were pulling out and making Crowley stammer for an explanation. _

_He didn’t need one, though, as Alexander pushed his legs apart, positioning them around his hips as he leaned down, holding his own weeping cock in two fingers as his weight came down and he lined himself up. _

_He went torturously slow, a fact for which Crowley was immensely grateful. Alexander’s cock head pushed gently at his entrance, and then he was_ pressing, _Crowley’s muscles slowly relenting and allowing him to glide inside. He was bigger than his three fingers had been, and he had only pushed slightly inside when Crowley’s fists closed on his shoulders painfully tight. _

_“Wait, wait, _fuck...” _he groaned, the pain overriding his earlier need. He didn’t even consider that a quick miracle could take care of it, didn’t consider anything, really. Nothing except clinging to Alexander like he’d float away if he didn’t. _

_Alexander groaned with the effort of holding still, but did it regardless. “I know, I know,” he whispered, his unpropped hand returning to Crowley’s hair, petting and massaging his scalp. “I’ll go slow. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.” _

_Crowley hissed in a breath, reminding himself to relax and breathe. He forced out the breath, releasing the tension in his legs. His muscles relaxed around Alexander, and the pain receded slightly. _

_“Good,” Alexander said again, and again Crowley heated under the praise. “Ready?” _

_Again unable to trust his voice, Crowley nodded. _

_He let out a series of sharp, whimpering exhales as Alexander pressed in again, feeling every inch’s slide and stretch. Alexander moaned as his hips _finally_ contacted Crowley’s thighs, his cock buried to the hilt. _

“Ah—_there. Not so bad?” Alexander whimpered, obviously struggling to contain himself. _

_Crowley nodded, squirming a bit at the feeling of being so full. It was foreign and strange, but as he breathed and looked up into lust-blown pupils, he found that he was warming to the feeling. Especially if he could find that delicious spot inside him again. _

_Alexander leaned in for a kiss, trapping Crowley’s erection between their bellies, and he whined into the king’s mouth as his hips began to move. It was only slightly painful now, and the delightful friction against his cock was beginning to override everything. The heat pooled in his stomach again, building extremely slowly with Alexander’s careful and measured thrusts. Their noises intermingled, to the point that neither was sure who’d whimpered what, who’d yelped or cried out. _

_Alexander began to move faster, his hips curling sinfully and pushing him flush with every snap of skin on skin. The hand in Crowley’s hair quickly traveled down his body, sliding beneath Crowley’s hip and pulling, angling his hips up. Not only did it push him deeper, it changed the angle and... _

_“Oh God!” Crowley cried out as Alexander’s cock hit that spot inside him _just right._ “Right there, Alexander, _please, pleassse...”

_The hiss was unavoidable as the pooling heat in Crowley’s sex grew more unbearable, but Alexander didn’t even seem to notice. He kept his hand firmly pulling at Crowley’s hip, and began eagerly pounding into him. His cock raked against that spot every time, each time driving Crowley completely_ fucking manic. _He could feel himself approaching something; something terrifying but _needing_ to be set loose. _

_Crowley’s hands dropped out to the sides violently, gripping handfuls of pillows as his vision began to blur and his ears began to ring. The heat was _blazing _now, and he felt as though he might burst from it, be consumed by it. His breaths came out as cries with every exhale, and suddenly Alexander had removed his hand from Crowley’s hip and reached forward to... _

_“Fuck, oh, God, please don’t stop....” Crowley _pleaded_ as Alexander’s hand tugged roughly at his cock to the rhythm of his thrusts. His fist was uncomfortably tight around his shaft, but it only made everything better, made it skyrocket to a new level of unbearable bliss. _

_With one more push against Crowley’s prostate, the heat erupted. Crowley nearly screamed, back arching up off the pillows as his abdominal muscles _spasmed _through wave after wave of such immense and debilitating pleasure. Crowley’s cries devolved to moans as he felt the hot liquid spurting from his cock and over his own chest, over Alexander’s hand. Alexander moaned with him, and Crowley could feel his insides clenching around him like a vice. Alexander pumped his hips once more, his eyes shutting tight and mouth hanging agape as Crowley felt him spill inside him, the heat of it pulsing with another weak thrust. Crowley’s skin immediately went from blissful to painful, and he whimpered as Alexander’s hand loosened and brushed against his softening prick. He felt his own thighs trembling terribly as Alexander slowly pulled back, both of them groaning as he pulled out. _


	31. Memories of Macedon, part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ probably, for some sexual language

_Alexander rolled off to Crowley’s right, reclining on an elbow and wrapping a leg over Crowley’s terribly trembling one. Overwhelmed at the sensations, Crowley merely stared up at the ceiling and tried to rein in his ragged breathing; his hips were jerking erratically as spikes of pleasure dimmed in his loins, his whole body shaking. Alexander’s leg twined with his own, slowly sliding up and tickling as their leg hairs mingled together. The king’s free hand slithered onto Crowley’s stomach, a single finger tracing through the cum there and dragging it over his abs. The sensation made Crowley’s hips jerk again, and a flash of heat rocket up his spine. He made a pathetic noise, closing his eyes and trying desperately to concentrate on anything but the pleasure, anything but Alexander’s touch on him. He failed miserably, his tongue (which was now rather long and rather forked) flashing out to wet his lips. _

_“You did very well...” Alexander said, his voice husky and lust-drunk. If he had seen his strange tongue, he didn’t mention it; instead continuing to trace a single finger over Crowley’s still-spasming abdominals. _

_“Well, I’ve no frame of reference, but...” Crowley began, finally turning his head to find those blown-wide pupils, the beautiful and sated expression staring back at him. “I believe you did rather well, too.” _

_Alexander smiled, pecked a quick kiss to Crowley’s lips, then leaned away to grab a small pillow. He brought it to Crowley’s stomach, gently wiping away the cum and tossing it somewhere out of sight. _

_He returned to recline next to Crowley, laying his hand on his sternum and gently curling his fingers as if he were petting a cat. His expression sank as he looked at Crowley’s face, and the hand on his chest rose to brush at his cheek. _

_“You’re crying,” Alexander said, wiping away the liquid with almost painful reverence. _

_“Am I?” Crowley asked, shocked. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d cried in 3000 years; demon’s weren’t inclined to it, and Crowley himself boasted a cockroach-esque ability to power through pain and torment with remarkable resilience. _

_Upon seeing the tortured look on Alexander’s young, handsome face, Crowley smiled. _

_“Good tears, I assure you,” he said softly, removing the lad’s hand from his face and placing it back on his chest. Alexander returned to curling his fingers against Crowley’s skin, but this time Crowley kept his hand gently encased around his wrist. _

_“What made you come to me?” Alexander asked curiously, rearranging to prop his head on his hand and stare unwaveringly at Crowley. _

_Well, he couldn’t answer that honestly, could he? _ Yes, well... my terrifying and, if we’re being honest, sexually predatory demon overlord commanded me to lie with you. Said it’d be good for Hell’s books. Threatened me with... I don’t even want to imagine, if I didn’t go through with it. And then I got angry and scared, and tried to drink myself to oblivion, but you stopped me, and you surprised me with your kindness, and then I actually sort of wanted to, and that scared me even more, and...

_Crowley’s face must have gone on an acrobatic journey as these thoughts raced through his mind, because an overtly fond expression befell Alexander, and he giggled lightly, the sound welcome like soft lyres in the streets at twilight. _

_So, he made something up. Or rather, he _thought_ he made it up, at first. _

_“Dunno, I... I just saw you there, and... I should think it was pretty clear that I wasn’t in a good mood when I came in. Some... stuff happened beforehand, don’t really want to talk about that. But I saw you there, alone. Everything around you was beautiful, and lively, and _fun,_ but... there you were. Alone. Watching it all through those otherworldly blue eyes with this kind of... envious jealousy. Like you could see all this perfection, all this beauty, but felt detached from it. Like you weren’t allowed to reach out and _have any _of it, just look. And I felt that, in my very bones; a bystander to merriment... happiness-adjacent, if you will. Seeing it around you but not allowed, or feeling obliged not to take it. And you have this reputation to uphold, but what’s a reputation worth when it leaves you so lonely?” _

_The absolutely stricken look on Alexander’s face made Crowley realize he’d been rambling, pulling from a memory somewhere far, far away... a garden, perhaps. A gate. An angel. _

_“Sorry, got carried away...” Crowley said with a nervous laugh. He was rather enjoying the wonderful caress of Alexander’s finger grazing up and down his chest, and he made a mental note to just shut up and enjoy it. _

_Alexander didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked on the verge of tears. “No, it’s... it’s fine,” he said, obviously swallowing around a lump in his throat (Crowley could have yowled triumphantly that that stupid bloody lump was bothering someone else now, but he kept his celebration strictly mental). _

_“You’re absolutely right,” Alexander mused, his eyes falling from Crowley’s and taking on a distant gleam. “I... I did. I sent everyone away because I... I had to uphold my reputation. I wanted them to think I was punishing you for throwing me off, when really I... I just saw how upset you were, how terrified you were when I touched you. And I thought of Bucephalus then, how deeply painful it was when he pulled away from me, _afraid of me. _And I just wanted to help you, but I can’t be seen as _soft,_ can’t be seen _to care too much. _Every move I make is taken and twisted and used against me by my enemies, to the point that I have to become something inhuman. Something that doesn’t feel, doesn’t _want._ But I do, _Gods I do!_ I want so much, and so passionately, but... what will they think of me, what will they say? Will they see my compassion as weakness, try to hurt me? How can I be both? King and lover, ruthless yet kind? How... _how_ can I have what I want and not be destroyed by it, in the end?” _

_Crowley genuinely smiled, impressed by the young man’s words. He reached over, brushing back his sandy hair and cupping his face. _

_“I’ll tell you what I do?” he said, and Alexander nodded desperately. _

_“Fuck ‘em.” _

_Alexander released a bark of laughter, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Crowley’s chest. Crowley continued to run his hands through his hair, enjoying the closeness of it, the vulnerability. _

_“I mean, not literally,” he went on. “You could, I suppose, if you wanted to. But what I mean is... you can’t live in fear. All it does is make you timid, make you weary. If you’re constantly afraid, how can you be assured of any decision you make? You’ll always second-guess yourself, always wonder if you made the right choice. And the fear will never be gone, don’t get me wrong. You can’t ever rid yourself of it, and to think you could do would only serve to torture you. But the way I see it, we exist on a scale. Our fears and limitations on one end, our potential and power on the other. It teeters back and forth obviously, but usually the fear rises up. And on the other end, we shrivel up and fall. But if we can just wrangle in those fears, understand them, _know them, _and know the power they have over us, then we can keep them as if in a cage. We can decide when to let them out, when to let them rise. And only then... can you be free. Take what you want, take it all, and never apologize or shy away. And anyone who has anything to say about it can fuck right off.” _

_Alexander truly laughed now, raising his head from Crowley’s chest and smiling brightly, tears glistening in his own eyes. _

_“You are truly a poet, Crowley. A bit of a crass one, but those are the best, are they not?” _

_Crowley smiled, finally leaning up and initiating his own kiss, deep and long and full of intention. He let his tongue slide easily across Alexander’s lower lip, and this time he was positive he noticed the strangeness of it. He still didn’t comment, though, pulling away from the kiss and studying Crowley for quite a long time. _

_Alexander finally rested his head on Crowley’s chest once more, the caress of his hand slowing gradually until it stilled and he fell peacefully to sleep. Crowley lay with him, thinking. _

_He would have to report back to Hell that the temptation was a success, and Asmodeus would likely re-emerge for a full overview. Crowley shivered to think; the Duke of Hell likely touching himself as Crowley debased the whole experience for Asmodeus’s enjoyment. _

_He swallowed, deciding as he watched the young king’s chest rhythmically rise and fall that Alexander wasn’t the only one needing his earlier advise. Perhaps he would just send a note? ‘Temptation accomplished. I do not fuck and tell. If you would like to know how he is in the sack, figure it out for yourself.’ _

_Perhaps not. He’d think on it. But for now, he wanted sleep, and he very much wanted to do it curled next to Alexander’s warmth. _

_And when morning came, and General Hephaestion roused the two of them, mumbling something about rebels in Athens and tossing Crowley the most seething of jealous glares, Crowley knew his words would be heeded. Alexander would seize everything he wanted, and then some. _


	32. The South Downs, Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley discuss what's been shared, and Aziraphale has a wild idea to take the demon's mind off things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature, but only for one brief but pretty intense recollection of rape.

The silence was deafening. Aziraphale was quiet for so long, in fact, that Crowley began to panic.

_Oh bugger. I’ve said too much, told him too much. Too many details. He only just opened up to this subject and I’ve told him about bloody anal. Stupid, stupid Crowley, what were you thinking. Bugger, bugger, bugger! _

He of course hadn’t given the angel every explicit detail, not in the way his own memory provided it anyway. But it was enough to infer.

Aziraphale finally shifted to look at Crowley, and _shit, _ he preferred the silence and the deliberately averted gaze. His stare now was wounded and affectionate, and dripping with remorse—pinched-in brows and eyes that positively sparkled with unshed tears.

“Crowley, I...” he paused, swallowing hard. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone, deal with it alone...”

Crowley did himself the favor of looking away; down at the tartan blanket. He placed his cigarette back in his lips in an effort to quell his urge to start screaming, and noticed that his fingers were trembling.

“Wasn’t alone. Not... not really...” he mumbled through a breath of smoke.

“That’s true, I suppose. Alexander seemed like... well, like a decent enough fellow?” Aziraphale asked, obviously desperate to make sure Crowley had _someone_ at the time. “For a one night stand, anyway?”

Of course Aziraphale would add a dash of bastard, why wouldn’t he?

Crowley giggled lightly, actually impressed that the angel even knew the phrase.

“Yeah. He was... very respectful. And gentle...” Crowley cringed at the word. He was a demon, he wasn’t supposed to desire _gentle. _

“Good. Good...” Aziraphale murmured, and suddenly it was becoming awkward again. _Christ, almighty, how did we end up here?! _

“Crowley, I... I really am very sorry about... the events that precipitated it. You must have been frightened, and alone, and... needing a friend. Asmodeus sounds... well, absolutely _horrifying. _I am so, _so sorry_ you couldn’t come to me. Really, I am,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking and taking Crowley’s resolve along for the ride.

He nodded, noting that his cigarette was down to the butt. He anxiously squashed it against the wine bottle, hurrying to light another and drag on it like his life depended on it.

“Nah, s’alright angel. Not your fault. We were both... trapped, as it were, by our respective sides. Nothing to be done except... except learn to deal with it. And besides... Asmodeus got what he wanted eventually. He always did...”

_Oh bollocks. Didn’t mean to add that tidbit. Fuck. _

Aziraphale stiffened as if he’d been petrified by Medusa. And perhaps he had, a bit. Just a different snake, really...

“You mean...” Aziraphale breathed, his eyes blown wide to reveal the whites.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.... fuck. _

_Asmodeus’s hands on his wrists, holding him to the hard stone of Hell’s fifth circle. The stench of smoke and brimstone, and the Duke’s hot breath on his neck. His wings, which had been brought out against his will, beating pathetically as the other demon moved inside him—drawing nothing but pain and cries. Asmodeus’s deep, nightmare-inducing voice, drawing out between thrusts, “good boy, Crawly. Take what you’re given like the little pet you are...” _

Crowley practically convulsed as he fought back the images and tried to wrangle them back into the box he’d forged in his mind for his worst memories—the ones he needed to physically remove in order to function, day by day.

Before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale had shoved the basket off the blanket, spilling wine and food alike onto the grass, and rocketed forward to yank Crowley into a tight embrace. In fact, Crowley barely managed to throw his hand out to the side to avoid the lit cigarette getting caught between them.

“Oh... Aziraphale... come on...” he tried to reason, but only halfheartedly. He couldn’t deny that, following the barrage of unwelcome images from the darkest recesses of his memory, being suffocated by an angelic hug was... the only thing that could have possibly helped.

“I am so sorry, my dear. _God, am I sorry. _ That word doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling. I should have been there for you, should have...” Aziraphale gasped into Crowley’s shoulder, and it was very clear that he was crying. _Shit. Now look what you’ve done. Gone and made him feel guilty. _

“Angel, seriously. Stop feeling guilty. I probably wouldn’t have come to you, even if I could have. I hid it away for a very... _very_ long time. Couldn’t even face it myself. Just... just being able to tell you now means everything. And it’s not like you were a horrible friend in the years following. Shortly after that, we made our arrangement, and you were exactly what I needed—a distraction, an escape. A _friend,” _Crowley blurted quickly, still holding his arms out and only allowing the angel to hold him. It felt like, if he returned the gesture, if he wrapped the angel up, he was accepting his guilt. And he couldn’t do that.

“But I wasn’t, not for a very long time. I was skiddish, and absent, and afraid. I just... what would have been different, if I’d been there for you?!”

“Angel, stop it,” Crowley growled harshly, feeling his throat closing up and Adam’s apple bobbing against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “None of it is your fault. You were all I had, and trust me, it was enough. I won’t have you blaming yourself or feeling guilty for giving me exactly what you were capable of giving me. Regret changes nothing. Now please, let’s just... can we talk about something else? Please?”

Aziraphale finally extricated himself and leaned back to kneel before him, holding his upper arms tightly and just looking at him for an unwavering moment. There were definitely tear tracks on the angel’s reddened cheeks, and Crowley had a sudden and violent need to get rid of them; replace them with joy.

“Alright, my dear. I’m sor—”

“Aziraphale, I swear to... I swear if you apologize _one more bloody time, _ I will toss you off this sodding cliff,” Crowley said with a hint of a smile, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Aziraphale settled, nodding with reservation. Crowley had a feeling that this conversation wasn’t over, judging by the way the angel pursued his lips, but since he’d asked, it was for now.

A look of curious mischief fell over the angel’s face as he considered the cliff edge Crowley had threatened to throw him over. His eyes snapped about, following that pair of gulls as they swirled around each other.

He held an open hand out to Crowley as he pushed to his feet.

“When was the last time you flew, my dear? Really flew, I mean,” he said, wiggling his hand in an attempt to get Crowley to take it, and a strange image came to mind of dangling a mouse before a snake. He smiled, but followed it with a series of unintelligible noises.

“Ngk—I... pft... really don’t think that’s a good idea, angel. What if someone sees?”

“Balderdash,” Aziraphale huffed, and Crowley chuckled at the old-fashioned word.

“There are a total of maybe fifty people in this town, and they’re all in for the night anyway. And I’ll... I’ll make sure we’re not seen. Come on, it’ll be _fun!” _ Aziraphale said with delight, wiggling his hand once more.

Crowley sighed, dropping his half-smoked cigarette into the empty wine bottle and deciding to take the angel’s hand. Allowing himself to be pulled to his feet did not mean he was agreeing to this ludicrous idea.

“Oh, do humor me, Crowley, just this once, I haven’t stretched them in _so long!” _

_“This once?! _Literally all I do is humor you!” Crowley barked with a laugh.

“Pssshhh,” Aziraphale harrumphed. “That’s not even remotely true, and you know it!”

“Nyeeeeh, it is. A bit,” Crowley replied with a playful sneer.

Without another word about it, Aziraphale’s pearly white wings erupted into existence, fanning out magnificently like the plumes of a peacock. But before Crowley could comment or summon his own, something caught his eye.

At the pinnacle of Aziraphale’s left wing, just before the joint, was a spot of bare flesh, a few mangled and graying feathers, and a blue-yellow bruise showing from beneath.

“Angel!” Crowley gasped, darting forward and reaching for it without thinking.

“Oh, yes, I had forgo—_oh!” _

The moment Crowley’s finger’s grazed even remotely close—the feathers bordering the bruising—Aziraphale cried out, his spine going completely rigid and his wings snapping closed against his back defensively.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley cooed, reaching for it again, but slower and gentler this time. “What... _what happened, Aziraphale?!” _he asked desperately, resting his fingers near Aziraphale’s back and slowly working his way toward the injury.

Aziraphale’s voice grew ever higher in pitch and began to catch worriedly the closer Crowley got.

“Oh, it’s nothing really. That’s just from the break where...”

Rage flashed through Crowley as he remembered.

_Aziraphale, downed by Hastur and crawling to get away. A vicious laugh, a crack, an otherworldly scream. _

_“Oh God...” _Crowley whispered, his fingers finally returning to the darkened flesh and making Aziraphale whimper and tense with anticipation. “It’s not still broken, is it?!” he asked, running his hand over the nearby feathers and watching as a few fell away. Aziraphale made another pitiful noise, but did not recoil.

“Oh, no, dear boy. The bone healed a while ago. I was just letting it heal naturally because... well, because I needed all my power for...”

_For me. You didn’t heal your own broken wing because you were saving all of your ethereal power for me; to help me, to protect me, to heal me. _

“Oh, angel, _how could you?” _Crowley begged, his own voice beginning to shake.

Before Aziraphale could even respond, Crowley gingerly wrapped his fingers around the wound, and poured everything he had into it.

Through the instantaneous connection, he could feel the damage; a healed but quite weak radius, a still-fractured ulna, torn bicep and tricep muscles, as well as a slightly pulled flexor and ligament.

He probably went too hard, too fast, judging by the agonized yowl Aziraphale released, but he wanted so badly to help him. And within seconds, it was over, leaving Aziraphale panting for breath and Crowley struggling to stay standing, with the pull on his minimal reserves of power. But Aziraphale was better, that was what mattered.

“B—better, angel?” Crowley asked, wobbling slightly and grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder for stability.

Aziraphale’s hand flew out to grasp Crowley’s, holding him steady as he spoke.

“You really shouldn’t have done that, my dear.”

“I know. I wanted to. You were injured protecting me, the least I can do is help make it better. You should have told me.”

“We had more important things to worry about. I’ve had a broken wing before; I was prepared to deal with it.”

Crowley scoffed, remembering their discussion earlier that week, in which Aziraphale had scolded Crowley for preferring to ‘deal with’ his own pain rather than ask for help. _Bloody hypocrite. _

Crowley did not say any of this, however, preferring to return his hands to the once-bruised flesh and analyze his handiwork.

Aziraphale’s entire wing shuddered, and he released what Crowley could only describe as a purr, thrumming from low in his throat.

“Oh, Crowley, that tickles,” Aziraphale murmured. If Crowley’s own experience was anything to go on, however, he was fairly certain ‘tickles’ was not the word he was looking for. Would Aziraphale even recognize sexual pleasure when he felt it?

Now was not the time to find out, so Crowley reluctantly pulled his hands away.

“Still missing a few coverts,” he said casually, his heart hurting as he gazed at the now healed, but slightly bald portion of wing. “Sure you’ll be able to fly right?”

“Only one way to find out,” Aziraphale said smugly, wiggling his shoulders in delight and raising his eyebrows with very deliberate suggestion. Crowley was helpless.

He groaned pleasantly as his own wings made their way into the physical plane, their perfection from Aziraphale’s grooming still holding flawlessly.

“Really, when _was_ the last time you actually flew? I believe mine was... 1912,” Aziraphale said distractedly.

Crowley sighed. He didn’t really count drunkenly flying to Penny’s place all those weeks ago, his mind fuzzy with terror and his body rocketing through the sky like a… well, a lead balloon. Falling with style, is what it had really come down to. “London. The fire,” he said softly.

Aziraphale turned to face him with wide eyes; his primaries rustling against Crowley’s and making his heart hit the gas pedal.

_“The_ fire? My dear, that was over _three hundred years ago!_ You mean to tell me that...”

Crowley interrupted, knowing Aziraphale would understand if he only had all the facts.

“I didn’t get out until late. Had to fly straight up and out. But a few primaries caught, and... and I, er... had a difficult..._ time_ with that image. Bit too familiar, if you catch my meaning. Fell back in, more caught fire, panicked more. You see where I’m going with this...” he said, trailing off and hoping his disinterested tone clearly said ‘I very much do not want to discuss this further.’

“Ah,” was all Aziraphale said, nodding cordially and resting a hand on Crowley’s forearm in comfort. Crowley grunted dismissively, pulling his arm back.

“Well then. We absolutely _must_ make a better memory to replace it with!” Aziraphale declared with delight, looking quite like the cat that got the cream.

Again, in the face of that adoring, pleading look... Crowley was absolutely helpless.

“Alright, but angels first.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not the saying.”

“Just shut up and jump, angel.”


	33. The South Downs, Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale fly together for the first time in a very long time. Fluff ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> Excessive fluff that I do not regret at all.

Crowley could recall a lot of firsts. The first time he heard the tentative wobbling notes of a violin. Laying eyes on the earliest human art, scraped onto cave walls with rocks. Tasting those first trickling drops of the earliest-made alcohol, his mind and body buzzing pleasantly. The first time he saw a skyscraper, the heat coming off the metal warming his skin in ways only direct sunlight could. The first scent of fresh baguettes baking on the French Riviera. Sitting in a little cinema and watching as a small group of haughty aristocrats descended into chaos before the very first showing of _L'Arrivée d'un train en gare de La Ciotat. _ Feeling that magnificent rumble and smelling thick exhaust as he sat in a Bentley in 1933. 

And none of it was quite so breathtaking as watching Aziraphale’s resplendent wingspan snapping open for probably the millionth time, reflecting the pearly Sussex moonlight as they did and sending him with a fumbling grace soaring down over the chalk cliffs and rising tide.

He had this adorable kilter to him—his right wing beginning to rise just slightly faster than the left. It never sent him off balance, or even affected his flight pattern in any way. But it gave Crowley the sudden and comedic impression of the angelic version of a lazy eye.

He chuckled lightly, tossing a last paranoid glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town before flinging himself over the cliff side with classic Crowley flair, tucking his arms and wings against his body and spinning in a manner that would put Olympic divers to shame. Halfway through the third rotation, he snapped his wings open, feeling the familiar whiplash of having his momentum suddenly halted, the flesh and membrane of his wings stretching pleasantly as they filled with cool, salty ocean air. He allowed himself to plateau off of his dive, approaching Aziraphale where he hovered over the water.

The angel smiled gleefully as he closed the distance, falling into formation just off Crowley’s right, their downdrafts syncing up and brushing primaries. Aziraphale sighed audibly with happiness, turning his face toward the horizon and closing his eyes to simply enjoy the sensory experience.

Crowley, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale. The brilliant sheen of his wings put the moon above him to shame, the very knowledge of what lay beneath those eyelids humbled the waves below. The amalgamation of their feathers, pitch black and stark white rising and falling in near-perfect rhythm, sharing air and ocean spray. A contradiction that somehow worked.

_As different as a moonbeam from lightning,  
Or frost from fire. _

Crowley didn’t dare put Brontë’s words to voice—he’d never live down the embarrassment of Aziraphale’s impressed smugness. But he heeded them all the same.

He didn’t know if having been deep in thought showed on his face, but judging by what Aziraphale did next, it must have done.

Aziraphale had a keen habit of noticing when Crowley was thought diving—getting too wrapped up in his own little world, letting it begin to constrict around his own neck. The ways he brought Crowley out of it differed wildly, from spouting suddenly about a new book, even though he knew Crowley wasn’t remotely interested, or asking him inane yet thought-provoking questions. _“Do you remember when we ran into Dante at that little soirée before the trials? Scarred him for life, we did.” _

The way this ability manifested now was an impressively speedy dive bomb that threatened to put Crowley off his rhythm and send him into the sea.

“Oi!” he yelled, righting himself and following with his eyes as Aziraphale rose about ten feet above him, and bent at the waist for another go.

“Alright, you right gi—”

Crowley was cut off as Aziraphale zipped passed him again, this time so close he split between a few feathers.

“Oh, I see how it is. Two can play at this game!”

Aziraphale giggled maniacally as he realized he’d roped Crowley into his escapades, but it died quickly when Crowley rocketed toward him, snapped his wings open hard to stop his progress, then flapped them as hard as he could manage toward Aziraphale, bombarding him with a gust so strong it sent him flipping over backwards and flapping hard to right himself.

“Oh ho! Cheeky!” Aziraphale called, rising to meet him and pausing for a moment.

“I suppose I may have just started something I really can’t fin—”

With a positively devious grin, Aziraphale interrupted himself by swooping in and _tackling _Crowley’s midsection. The two plummeted for a moment, until the angel leapt back in the air, clapping his hands victoriously.

“Well, I should think I’ve proven, without question, who would have won the war,” he said, with no small degree of sass, his head swiveling delightedly on his wiggling shoulders.

“Oh! N—wh... tha’s... no!” Crowley stuttered, wounded, but only in the pride. “Absolutely false! I_ let you_ do all that! Don’t wanna hurt you or anything! Plus, you... y’know, caught me off guard. And the like.”

“Well, did you expect the Host of Angels to give you a heads up, as it were? _Yes, let it be known that, on this, the day of our Lord’s triumph, we intend forthwith to annihilate you. Cheerio!” _

Crowley scoffed. “Not insomuch, no! But they do have a habit of preceding their so-called sneak attacks with an absolutely horrid chorus of heavenly trumpets. I do have ears!”

“Fair point my boy, fair point,” replied Aziraphale, feigning consideration, complete with chin-pinch, before bolting forward once more.

“Oh no you don’t!” Crowley growled, pivoting in midair, letting Aziraphale fly slightly past him, and grabbing his khaki coat with a grip that could crush stars. He pulled, setting off Aziraphale’s aerodynamics and causing him to fling a hand out and grab Crowley’s shirt front. This made their collective ability to flap their wings practically nonexistent, and they began to fall.

“Who’s gonna win now, huh?” Crowley drawled, happy to play a little chicken if it meant proving a point.

“Oh... I’m not worried my dear,” Aziraphale replied, huffing a little from the exertion, but otherwise just as smug.

_So that’s how it’s gunna be, then? _

“Is that so?” Crowley drawled, snapping his wings closed against his back and essentially becoming dead weight. He felt Aziraphale naturally try to let him go to free himself of it, but Crowley held fast.

The angel grunted, his wings pumping twice as hard to carry the both of them, the weight of Crowley’s wicked smile dragging them faster.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Aziraphale said, resigned defeat in his tone as the ocean surface steadily rose to meet them.

“I don’t think I have.”

“I swear, if you get this coat we—”

And then they both hit the water with a magnificent _splash. _

Crowley was already laughing before he surfaced, and it forced a nice helping of water up his nose.

He could tell, when he popped above the surface, that Aziraphale wanted to be angry with him—his cheeks were red with irritation and he was doing his best to put on an expression of exasperated frustration. But as he laid eyes on Crowley, spluttering for breath while simultaneously managing to guffaw like a donkey, with water streaming from both nostrils, his resolve broke. It started as a breathy, broken chuckle, but soon escalated into hysterics which echoed out against the cliffs.

The two of them made their way to shore, swimming and laughing, their wings too waterlogged to lift them.

Just barely out of the crashing waves, Crowley collapsed into the soft, liquid-dense sand, rolling onto his side and feeling the grit of it working deep into his feathers and clothes, but absolutely unable to care. He simply couldn’t stop laughing.

“Just... like... you, you _bastard!” _he cackled, actually having to hold his stomach as it began to ache from the fit of giggles. A wave crashed gently against him, making him roll forward slightly and flare out his sopping wet wings to ensure he didn’t go face-first into the sand.

“Me?!” Aziraphale’s exasperated voice choked from behind him. “You’re the one who wouldn’t let go!”

“Well you went and made it a challenge, didn’t you?!” Crowley barked back. “With that ruddy nonsense about who would’ve won the war.”

“Well...” Aziraphale huffed, and Crowley heard a _splat_ as the angel plopped onto the wet sand behind him. He rolled, closing his wings tight and lying on top of them so he could look at a water-logged Aziraphale that very much resembled a grumpy wet cat, his clothing plastered to his body and his normally-fluffy blond hair sticking out in every which wiry way.

“I should think we did it just about the same this time. Made a mighty racket, spiraled out of control, didn’t help anyone, and ultimately failed,” he continued with a grin, yanking at his sad, droopy bow tie and pulling it loose.

Crowley gave a single chuckle at that, but clapped a hand against the angel’s sodden shoulder with a _slap. _

“But at least we fell together, eh?” he asked, something in his chest beginning to ache as he did.

Aziraphale smiled warmly and turned to look down at Crowley. “Yes. That, we did.”

His smile vanished, only to be replaced with indignant resignation as he halfheartedly shoved Crowley’s hand away. “But you got my clothes all wet, you great bloody _knob!” _

With that, he pushed to his feet, his shoes letting out a comical _squick_ as he did, and making Crowley descend into giggles again. He held a hand down to Crowley, wiggling it with barely heated frustration.

Crowley took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Al_right!” _he groaned, waving a hand. The angel’s clothing was suddenly clean and dry, the only sign that he’d plummeted into the sea being his bow tie, hanging pitifully around his neck. He did not, however, dry his wings for him. Doing anything to those still required permission. Or... he thought it did. _Would Aziraphale really care? _

The angel’s wings suddenly rose, fluttering hard like a bird in a bath, and the air around them was filled with tiny raindrops that reflected moonlight (or the angel’s wings themselves, Crowley couldn’t be sure which) like so much snow. He marveled for only a moment, averting his gaze (not bashfully, _definitely not bashfully) _when Aziraphale caught him looking.

The angel returned the favor, snapping for a bit of flair and returning Crowley’s sharp ensemble to its usual flawless bite.

His expression fell a little then, and his eyes wandered past Crowley.

“You have... more sand in your wings than feathers,” he said, but his tone was a bit... hollow.

Crowley fluttered them hard, but it only managed to work the water out. He could still feel the grit as it sank down against the flesh, becoming instantly itchy.

“I’ll just miracle it out,” he grumbled, peering over his shoulder at the sand-speckled ebony.

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open to speak, but it quickly closed again, and he shrugged, pursing his lips and dithering with his hands.

“Well, I, I... I could, you know. Take care of them. For you. If you’re amenable...”

Crowley couldn’t help the way his mouth fell open and his eyebrows made a valiant job of trying to ascend from his face. It was... a step, to put it lightly. And while Aziraphale had already groomed them once, Crowley had been asleep at the time. Doing this... the two of them..._ intentionally_...it _meant something. _

Aziraphale rocketed on, obviously worried.

“I think I saw an extensive collection of Errol Flynn films back in the... the cottage. We could put one on while I... well, of course, that is, only if...”

Crowley almost couldn’t bear the angel’s timidity. He adopted a thoughtful look, pursing his lips, nervous himself but prepared to face it.

“Always liked Flynn. Great actor, handsome bugger,” he said dismissively, and Aziraphale practically lit up.

“Oh! So you...”

“Sure, angel, why not? You’ve already worked on them once, not sure what could be different a second time.”

As they nodded in affirmation to each other, turning shoulder-to-shoulder toward the cliff-face to return to the cottage, Crowley knew they were both aware that _everything_ would be different.


	34. The South Downs, Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale prepares to groom Crowley's wings for the first time, and a few things come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for some sexual language

Crowley was unusually quiet as Aziraphale pattered about the cottage, setting the mood, for a lack of better words. Grooming Crowley’s wings, while he was _awake... _it was monumental. The unspoken taboo of it had kept their hands off for 6000 years. They’d occasionally helped each other pull a bit of debris from them, or plucked certain irritating barbs away. But touching for _touching’s sake... _ it was a level of intimacy that, while becoming much more common by the day, ever since the non-apocalypse... just hadn’t been attempted yet. And now it was. Intentionally. With permission and express desire. Well... perhaps_ desire_ wasn’t the right word. Or maybe it was. Maybe that was why Crowley was so quiet, as Aziraphale slid the _Captain Blood_ tape into the VCR. 

Aziraphale tossed him a sideways glance and nervous smile, but it went completely unnoticed by the demon, who was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, a decorative pillow hugged to his chest and his wings spread tensely to either side.

Aziraphale would have chalked it up to Crowley’s recent admissions, his sudden openness about a previously non-disclosed subject, sex. But after their playful little flight together over the sea, the conversation seemed to have melted from the demon’s mind. Now... now he just looked incredibly nervous, his eyes cast down against the rug, his hands gripping the pillow at his chest so tightly they shone bright white.

Aziraphale sighed, continuing to mull about (lighting a few candles, opening the patio door for a fresh breeze) so that Crowley would have some time to either relax, or work up the courage to change his mind. Aziraphale would be fine with either option, but if he knew anything about Crowley, it was that he would do neither, and never communicate the decision he’d come to, forcing himself to shut down, tense up, and withdraw. It was a habit that Aziraphale was desperately trying to break, but one he found he was having pitiful little success.

He cleared his throat as he approached, as it appeared in the far-off look in Crowley’s unshielded eyes, that he was somewhere else. And in fact, he was right about that, as Crowley jerked back to awareness at the sound, his shoulders rising a bit defensively and his eyes following Aziraphale to where he stood just to Crowley’s right.

“Comfortable, my dear?” he asked, shimmying past Crowley’s wings and sitting on the couch, facing their impressive back sides.

Crowley nodded, but it appeared tense and broken. So far, Aziraphale was not happy with Crowley’s body language. His shoulders were squared and rigid, his spine unnaturally straight and still. His wings were trembling horribly, and it was forcing some of the ingrained sand to rustle free, falling to the floor with a little _tinkle._ It was completely contradictory to the verbal consent he’d already gotten, and a tell-tale sign of Crowley’s aforementioned inability to verbalize his discomfort.

“Are you quite alright, my dear? You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said, which only made the demon tense up more, his wings snapping closed like a rubber band.

Aziraphale could already hear the defensive, snippy “I’m fine” preparing to bark from Crowley’s lips, so he quickly continued.

“If you’ve changed your mind, Crowley, you need only tell me. Really. I won’t be offended or upset; I understand what you’re feeling. This is... this is something I don’t think an angel and demon have ever undertaken.”

“I_ really don’t think you do,” _ Crowley snapped, and his voice was muffled, as if he had hidden his entire face against the pillow he was clutching.

“Then _explain it to me,” _ Aziraphale begged. “Come on, Crowley, _we talked about this._ I need you to be more forthcoming with me. You don’t serve Hell anymore, so any openness isn’t _weakness, _ it’s just _honesty.” _

Again, he could already hear the rumblings of Crowley’s retort—“May not serve Hell, but I’m still a demon, it’s not in my nature to...”

And Aziraphale would interrupt, “don’t give me that malarkey about _natures, _ you don’t even believe it, yourself! I recall a certain someone, lecturing me about _tail-less mice, _once upon a time...”

But that would escalate this into an argument, so Aziraphale went with something a little more bold.

_“Crowley...” _

He reached out, between the pinnacles of Crowley’s closed and taut wings, and rested his hand gently against the back of the demon’s neck. His skin was heated, and he flinched away slightly at the sudden contact. He did not, however, pull entirely out of Aziraphale’s reach.

Aziraphale recalled Crowley’s confession, earlier in the week, and so ran his fingers up delicately into his hair. He focused, radiating a bit of calming grace into Crowley’s aura, and smiled when he visibly relaxed, deflating slightly before his eyes.

“Sorry, angel,” he mumbled, still sounding like his face was buried in the pillow. “‘S’just... my... the way I... ngk,” he balked, his head bowing more forcefully forward and shoving intentionally into the pillow, away from Aziraphale’s hand. When he spoke again, it was almost comically muffled by a mouthful of fabric.

“The only other person to touch them is Penny.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, confused by this. Why did that matter?

“My dear, I’m afraid I don’t under—”

Crowley interrupted heatedly, but it was so forced, and so mumbled by the pillow, that it just resonated like the sound of a dying cat.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin affectionately, the image reminding him very much of a bashful child.

“I didn’t catch that...” he said, squeezing the demon’s neck gently in prodding.

Crowley’s head snapped up violently, and he practically yelled at the opposite wall.

“It’s usually in a sexual scenario, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale could feel the blood leave his face as a very unintentional “oh!” escaped his lips, and he yanked his hand away from Crowley.

Crowley let out a groan, tossing an accusatory finger up over his shoulder, at the hand that had just abandoned him.

“That! That, right there!” he snapped. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, didn’t... didn’t know how to _handle myself, _ if I were to react... in a way that... _uggghhh, _angel, I just... I need you to know that I... ssssometimes, it’s... involuntary, frightfully human, even, and it’ssss not like I can control...”

He was positively _rambling_ now, hissing terribly, his trembling having gotten monumentally worse.

“Hush, Crowley, shhhh....” Aziraphale cooed, after regaining control of his own shock, reaching out once more and resting his hand at the juncture between Crowley’s neck and shoulder. He could feel the vibrating of Crowley’s skin, the tense muscle pulled so tight it felt like stone.

Aziraphale had to admit, he hadn’t expected_ this. _ He’d expected Crowley to be motivated by fear, or by pain, but... not _this. _ All things considered, it... was actually a bit of a relief.

“My dear, you really needn’t worry. If you need to stop, so that you can... _ahem... calm down... _just tell me. It’s not as if I don’t understand these things. I do _read.” _

All at once, Crowley abandoned the pillow, planted his palms on the floor, and pivoted violently, his left wing fairly _slapping_ Aziraphale in the face as he spun, leaving the angel spluttering in surprise, a downy black feather comically stuck to his lip.

Aziraphale removed it with a huff, giving a very confused and mortified demon his full attention.

“You do realize, we’re talking about me getting a _boner_ from your touch, yes?” Crowley asked, his voice several octaves higher than normal.

Aziraphale inhaled, blinking away his exasperation at the word choice.

“Well, I was thinking we would avoid such _crass words, _ but yes, Crowley. I understand. For one such as yourself, who has an... er... _active libido, _ it’s perfectly natural. So if you need me to stop, to... to... _sort yourself out, _ or...”

_“Sort myself ou—”_ Crowley absolutely shrieked, his eyes as wide as golf balls. “Oh, sweet baby antichrist, this is just too bloody weird...”

He buried his face in his hands and groaned, but before he did, Aziraphale caught sight of such brilliant red cheeks, the likes of which he’d never seen. It was rather... endearing.

He reached out to rest a hand on Crowley’s shoulder in reassurance, but he paused centimeters away, wondering suddenly if touching him right now was the right choice.

“It really needn’t be awkward, Crowley. I may have never, erm... _partaken_ in such activities, but I know how it works. And I’ve been aware that you did... erm... _partake, _ for quite some time now. It’s not like this is brand new information to me. And if you’ve changed your mind, the same deal applies;_ just tell me, Crowley. Talk to me, please.” _

Crowley slowly lowered his hands from his face, his brilliant eyes cautiously rising to meet Aziraphale’s.

“It wouldn’t... er, it wouldn’t... _offend you. _ If... if that... happened? And it was..._ you_ that... that...” he waved a hand vaguely, but Aziraphale knew what he was getting at.

He had to suppress a smile, as he could tell that Crowley was still very touchy on this subject.

“No, my dear. Why? Would it _matter, _ to you? That it’s me, inspiring such a reaction?” he felt a bit bold, with that last addition, but he just knew they were treading a thin line, and he could, if he was enough of a bastard, push Crowley over it—get him to admit what was dangling from the tip of his tongue like a well-cast fishing line. Gently. Of course.

Crowley colored again, and _heaven help him, _ it was quite adorable. Big, bad demon—purveyor of the original sin, and _foul fiend... blushing. _

“N—no... no. It wouldn’t. ‘S’just... natural... like you said...” he said, his voice now plummeting to a mere squeak.

Now _that_ was a lie, Aziraphale was sure of it.

Aziraphale had never felt comfortable discussing this with Crowley in the past, with the weight of so much Heavenly judgment dangling over his head like an anvil, but... he’d had some... _curiosities, _over time. And while he’d never bowed to those curiosities, he had done a fair bit of research, in order to better understand what motivated humans to so wildly and adamantly pursue sex. He’d even, once or twice, caught himself wondering if he could be allowed experimentation, just to understand better. But those curiosities always died almost as soon as they arose, not because he worried about heavenly retribution (mostly), but because he couldn’t imagine being that close to a human... couldn’t imagine trusting such creatures with anything so momentous. Even if he did manage to become emotionally attached to one, enough to find himself in a situation which could warrant such intimacy... he knew he would be heartbroken to eventually lose them.

But... but _Crowley... _

He found his breath catching in his throat at the thought. _No. No, certainly I would Fall for that. Angel, demon. Certainly? _

“Angel?”

“Oh! What? Yes? I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to grin. “I just said... if you’re still offering... I’m still accepting. That is... if...”

“Yes, yes, of course, sweethea—er, _dear. _ Turn back around for me.”

Crowley nodded, looking a little nervous, but turned regardless, keeping his left wing pulled closed to avoid a repetition of the earlier mishap. He picked up his pillow again, pulling it to his chest, resting his chin atop it, and extending his wings fully to the sides, the length passing either end of the couch by an impressive span.

Before reaching for them, Aziraphale grinned, snapping his fingers. A highball of whiskey and a bowl of popcorn appeared on the floor in front of Crowley’s crossed legs, and the movie began playing, the first few epic notes of soundtrack sending Aziraphale back more than fifty years, to a little theater in Boston, with... who else? Crowley.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley mumbled bashfully, reaching for the whiskey.

“Of course, my dear. Anything to make you more comfortable. I’m... I’m going to touch them, now, if that’s alright?”

The nervous swallow Crowley made was audible, but he nodded, brokenly, _yes. _

His hand hovering over deep ebony feathers, Aziraphale was suddenly struck with the crushing weight of the trust he’d been offered, like a sack of bricks to the gut. Angels hardly ever groomed one another’s wings, and he could only assume that demons kept them even more closely guarded, what with their penchant for double-crossing. Their wings were directly attached to their supernatural souls. You only got the one pair (or however many pairs you were initially created with), and if something happened to them, say irreparable damage from the other side... then you would find yourself a wingless celestial.

So for Crowley to freely offer them, even to someone he’d known for 6000 years, trusted for probably closer to 5000... it was momentous.

With an unsteady exhale, Aziraphale slowly, gently, _reverently_ pressed his fingers against the plush down at the base of his wings, just adjacent to his spine. Crowley immediately tensed, an anxious sort of whimper escaping him as his wings threatened to close; their lengths falling a bit and beginning to tremble again.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled dejectedly. “Reflex.”

“Quite alright, my dear,” Aziraphale replied quietly, keeping his hands still where they rested. He waited to continue until Crowley’s wings relaxed back outward, his tense shoulders gradually falling with a sigh.

It was... different. He’d of course touched Crowley’s wings before (when he’d healed them after Lucifer’s vicious attack), and indeed he’d even groomed them before, when Crowley had fallen into his dreadful unconscious state after the initial go at exorcism healing. But... _this. _ Being _allowed, _ freely, willingly. Despite the obvious fear, despite years and years of denial. Feeling Crowley move beneath his fingertips, feeling his reaction, being _trusted_ wholly, intimately. Aziraphale had been handed the infant Jesus, in a barn scarcely lit in Bethlehem, and this... _this... _ felt like even more of a benediction in his hands than that had. He supposed that was slightly blasphemous, thinking so, but... no lightning came to strike him down, so... to each their own?

He grinned at the thought, pushing his fingers into the down, to where he could still feel the grit of sand littering the feathers, and began working it out with careful strokes.


	35. The South Downs, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale grooms Crowley's wings for the first time (while awake anyway), and Crowley comes to a few realizations. As these things do, though, it goes to Hell in a handbasket pretty quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for some sexual language and imagery
> 
> An author's note: yes, I do a lot of wing kink/grooming. No, I'm not sorry. I just enjoy exploring how celestials on Earth would relate to their heavenly appendages.

Crowley wanted to continue to be nervous about this, he really did. He’d breached a subject _twice this evening_ that he’d fully intended to avoid for the entirety of his... his frie—rela—_whatever_ with Aziraphale. But he just _couldn’t_, not with the way Aziraphale’s hands began brushing... _petting_ down through his scapular feathers with such gentleness and care. And then he was angling those perfect hands up, sliding them beneath, between the feathers and the skin, allowing the scapulars to collect between his fingers; Crowley could tell by the hundreds of little nerve endings firing at the base of each feather as they shifted. Crowley was powerless to stop the groan of pleasure that ripped from his throat as the angel wiggled his hands left and right, gently shaking the gritty sand from the plumage and letting it rustle to the rug below. 

And while Crowley had expected to be turned on by it, he wasn’t. Not really. It was more of a... non-sexual pleasure, an indulgence that came of trusting someone who could have... _should have_ hurt him, to touch, to worship his skin. And how perfect it was. Crowley had felt any number of physical pleasures, probably almost all of them. Hell, he’d even completed the Devil’s Sept, an act which involved accomplishing all seven deadly sins at once.1

And while he wasn’t physically turned on by Aziraphale’s touch, it felt like an opulence outranking any base, physical act a body could be capable of. Like _ethereal_ lust... like it wasn’t his body being touched, his feathers being caressed, but his actual _soul. _ Like being _known, _more intimately than the humans could ever dream of being known. It made sex pale in comparison, like finding chump change in the couch cushions, like the celestial equivalent of a high five.

And it didn’t feel like this when Penny did it. With Penny, there was an urgency, a point, an _end game. _ But Aziraphale... he took his time, easing his fingers through the feathers with such slow precision that it felt as though they could do this until the next apocalypse, and his work _still_ wouldn’t be done. It felt as though Aziraphale wouldn’t be satisfied until Crowley was a writhing, mewling puddle of ecstatic goo. He was being _worshipped... worshipped by an angel _in a way that felt both truly divine and downright unholy.

Entirely against his will, Crowley’s throat released another moan, as if ensuring that Aziraphale heard the verbal proof of his ecstasy, since he hadn’t commented on the first one.

“Alright, my dear?”

And_ damn, _ if that tone didn’t encompass _magnitudes_ of knowing smugness. Bastard.

Crowley bit his lip hard enough to cause pain, hoping it would refocus his thoughts on anything but the mind-numbing euphoria that rocketed up and down his spine as the angel migrated from the scapulars to the tertiaries.

“Mmhmm,” he grumbled, nodding. Or he thought he nodded. He couldn’t feel anything anymore—not the condensation rolling off the glass of whiskey and over his fingers, not the hard, unforgiving surface of the floor beneath him. Nothing but the focused, pinpointed_ rapture_ of Aziraphale’s fingertips, now forming delightful little circles against the thin flesh under his feathers.

As if noticing the impending cliff Crowley was about to plummet from, Aziraphale suddenly curled his fingers a bit, his neatly trimmed nails raking against the skin incredibly lightly...

Crowley yelped, but not from pain. Definitely not pain. Or was it pain? Could pleasure reach a threshold at which it became pain? His entire body _shuddered, _ and he collapsed forward, abandoning the glass and bracing his flat, sweaty palms against the floor. He hadn’t meant to, but he pulled his wings forward, yanking them from the angel’s reach and simply holding them out. Like airing a delicacy that’s still too hot to the tongue.

“Oh, Crowley, are you...”

“Just...” he panted, eyes slammed shut as he tried to figure out what was going on with the mayhem of his physiology right now. “Give us a mo.”

It felt familiar. It felt... like those moments of overwhelming heat and sensitivity just before an orgasm. But... he wasn’t even hard, wasn’t even...

And the racing heartbeat and overheated skin eventually subsided, during sex. But this... there couldn’t _be_ a finishing point, a climax, so... would it just keep rising, pulsing, _burning so good_ until he just flat out discorporated?2

“Crowley?” 

The angel’s voice helped him to re-center, but he found, when he finally opened his eyes, that he was seeing stars; little starbursts of black and white on the corners of his vision, dancing and ebbing like so many fireflies. He swallowed hard, inhaling shallowly and cautiously sitting upright once more. He slowly angled his wings back into Aziraphale’s reach, aware that they were trembling horribly again.

“Erm... can you... _not...” _ he begged, his voice scarcely a whisper, and he wasn’t even sure what he was asking Aziraphale to _not do. _

“Yes, that was rather cruel of me,” Aziraphale said primly, and Crowley couldn’t help but appreciate the angel’s proclivity toward self-satisfaction. “I will dial it back. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, finding the strength of his voice returning. “Just... take it easy on me, will you?”

“Just so,” Aziraphale agreed, but instead of returning his hands to both wings, he scooted down the couch to focus his efforts on just the right one. For a moment, Crowley panicked at the idea of double the attention, concentrated in such a small area, but Aziraphale was much less... _heated_ about his attentions this time.

Crowley found that, after a bit of effort, he was able to let the tension go from his rigid shoulders, his ramrod spine. It came out like the air released from a balloon, slowly but surely, allowing him to slump a bit against the pillow he still had against his chest. The relaxation must have been obvious to the angel, because he quietly muttered,

“There you go.”

Crowley had meant to respond, say something witty, something denying how wonderful this all was. But his lips felt unreachable, his fingertips tingling like he was about to float away.

For the next hour, Aziraphale pampered his way to the right, scrupulously working in long up-and-down patterns across first Crowley’s right wing, and then his left. He took particular care of the primaries, given that there were only twelve; trapping them between his middle and pointer finger and pulling them through, one at a time, meticulously ensuring not a single grain of sand remained.

“Do you remember going to see this film in Boston when it came out, my dear?” Aziraphale asked quietly as he continued to work his way back across Crowley’s left wing, toward his back.

He’d honestly forgotten there was a movie playing; hadn’t heard it over the soft, pleasant ringing in his ears, hadn’t been distracted by it as he’d let his eyes drift closed in comfort.

Dazed with relaxation, he rolled his head up and opened his eyes to find the dashing Captain Blood flinging his sword about and shouting orders, the ship’s French flag falling and the British one rising. The muted sounds of canon fire rang out as the dastardly crew swindled the attacking French ships, and liberated Port Royal.

Crowley smiled. “Oh, yes. We nearly got thrown out because I was so vocal about how sexy Errol Flynn was.”

Aziraphale snorted, and the laughter travelled down his arms, making his fingertips vibrate against Crowley’s feathers. He shuddered again, but the angel did not comment, instead stilling and returning easily to his work.

“Well, it was 1935, I hardly think you used those words. But I do recall ‘dashing’ and ‘handsome’ being dropped several times.”

Crowley grinned, pausing to watch as a crewman approached the _dashing_ captain to pronounce, “the ship’s takin’ on water, Cap’n! By rights, we’re sinkin! What should we do?!”

Handsome as ever, the Captain gave a debonair smile as the camera pulled in on him, and he thrust his sword high into the air.

“I’faith, we’ll get on a ship that’s _not sinking! Come on, men!” _

Crowley abandoned the following scene, instead electing to turn his head a bit over his shoulder to look at Aziraphale.

And _bloody heaven, _ at some point he’d donned his reading glasses, and was carefully analyzing down his nose at each little feather that passed through his fingers. As if Crowley was a precious Dickens, a prized Shakespeare. Occasionally, caught in a moment of concentration, his tongue would poke out, and he’d bite down on it, focusing so intently that he obviously didn’t realize he was doing it.

A breeze kicked up outside, and the horrendous floral curtains leapt gracefully into the cottage, the patio door Aziraphale had left open allowing the chilled sea air inside. The sand that had already been worked free from Crowley’s wings blew across the rug and onto the surrounding hardwood, but Aziraphale remained focused; in fact, as the wind shifted a few of Crowley’s feathers under his hand, he sucked his tongue back in and smiled, using the natural help to ruffle a last bit of sand loose.

Crowley had a hard time believing there was any sand left in his feathers; Aziraphale’s thorough attention had likely rid him of it long ago. Now... now he was just... touching for the Hell of it, but Crowley would gladly fight for the right to call it Heaven.

“You know, Crowley...” Aziraphale began, his tone belying a certain questionable intent.

Crowley turned his head back to look at him in prodding, but the angel’s eyes were only for his wings.

“They really are quite breathtaking,” he nearly whispered, his hands finally working back to the joints at his spine. Crowley didn’t quite know what to say. His physical appearance was part of his carefully concocted human persona, and indeed he’d definitely taken extra care to ensure it was as alluring and in-style to humans as possible. But his wings... those he didn’t get to choose. Those reflected what he was... _inside. _ Dark, filthy, pitch black and frightening. _Fallen. _

But... to be told that they were beautiful... it was strange and not at all in line with how Crowley thought of them.

Noticing Crowley’s sudden silence, Aziraphale went on, quoting in a conspiratorially hushed tone, “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

Crowley grinned warmly, finally picking up the glass and drinking of the very fine whiskey. He hadn’t known Poe, he’d slept through the man’s entire life. But Aziraphale had come to him upon waking, waving his many macabre works in Crowley’s face. “Oh, my dear, you’ll just _adore_ this one! He’s so dark and depressing. Very fitting of your aesthetic!”

And in fact Crowley did adore the man’s work, and the eccentric had checked almost every box on a list of both angelic and demonic interests. For Aziraphale, it was the way he weaved words like a spider web, entrapping any who were lucky (or unlucky) enough to hear them. For Crowley, it had been a flair for the dramatic, a ghastly sense of wonder, a love of the color black, and a habit of caving to his vices. It hadn’t happened often that they found a human that they both could enjoy, but... there had been those select special few.

Crowley swallowed his whiskey around a lump in his throat, recalling an incident soon thereafter, in which the two of them fought viciously (verbally, of course) and they separated for almost 50 years. Choosing a line from the poem more suitable to his own tastes, Crowley went on,

“Till I scarcely more than muttered ‘Other friends have flown before—  
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before....”

The sadness in his own voice surprised him, and he could tell by the way the angel’s fingers stilled, it startled him too.

Aziraphale leaned in then, stunning Crowley with a light kiss to the top of his head and whispering _“nevermore.” _

He accompanied it with a move that, if Crowley had known was coming, he would have adamantly warned against.

When he leaned forward, Aziraphale looped his arms beneath Crowley’s wings, pulling them back against his chest and running his fingers against the bicep muscle in his wing. It was a move Penny had discovered, a move that only ever accompanied one thing. At this point, it was practically Pavlovian.

By the time he possessed the presence of mind to speak up, it was too late.

His heart slammed in his chest, arousal flooding his veins as images and sensations blossomed over his skin; silk sheets, teeth on flesh, writhing bodies... _blue eyes. _

_Fuck. _

And suddenly,_ violently, _the person in those images wasn’t Penny, wasn’t the hundreds of other humans. The fingers against his wings as he shuddered in ecstasy weren’t Penny’s. The arms around him, holding him, keeping him still as he convulsed with desire, weren’t hers. It wasn’t her bed, it wasn’t her house. It wasn’t the smell of burned sage and lavender, it wasn’t the taste of coconut body oil.

It was the smell of books and parchment, cinnamon and vanilla candles. Red wine and faint rain-soaked sidewalks. It was a slightly pilled tartan couch. It was warmth, and comfort, and_ trust; _ perfectly manicured cashmere fingertips, _digging in, _ caressing. And a smooth, low, honey-spilled voice, sighing over the crackle of a wood-burning fire that would never go out... _oh, my dear... _

With a desperate yelp, Crowley immaterialized his wings, leaping so hurriedly to his feet that he spilled his whiskey across the rug and sent the bowl of untouched popcorn flying. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back—just rocketed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it with fingers that shook so bad, he failed twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1With a flash of pride, his mind briefly wanders to a bedspread covered in cash, bowls of whipped cream and strawberries, a few crops, a single pair of handcuffs, and a few consenting humans of various sizes, genders, and states of undress. A strange but triumphant time had been had by all.
> 
> 2 And wouldn’t that just be the bees knees? ‘Yes, hello Satan, I believe I’ve just been given the supernatural equivalent of death by orgasm, would you mind terribly providing me another corporation? I’d very much like another go. There’s a good chap.’
> 
> Another author's note: I've officially changed the story rating to Explicit, as one of the main arcs of this story is Crowley's journey (and actually Aziraphale's too) through redefining sex. Probably should have done that a while ago. Oops.


	36. The South Downs, Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley deals with the consequences of Aziraphale's wing grooming. 
> 
> Or: oops, I spilled angst in my porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Explicit
> 
> Trigger warnings: some pretty nasty intrusive thoughts, and a brief moment of self-harm.

“Shit, bugger, _shit, shit, fuck!” _ Crowley growled, feeling himself absolutely _quaking_ from head to foot, mild hysteria building in his lungs like Vesuvius ready to blow. 

He paced the short length of the bathroom, gripping his hair painfully hard and hoping the sting of it would make this... _this problem _go away.

Of course he’d thought about it. Thought about Aziraphale, thought about what it might be like, taking an angel..._ this angel _to bed. But he’d thought about it in the same way people briefly consider_ if I yanked the steering wheel to the side right now, I could do so much damage. _But then they _don’t do it. _ It’s an impulse, a curiosity, a random fleeting thought that bears no actual intention.

But Aziraphale had gone and done... _done that. _Penny _did that. _ It was a big red button, an enter key, a damn _live-wire_ that led right into his pants. And like a set of dominos, Crowley’s mind was now falling, falling, _falling_ through a string of thoughts he’d tried very hard to steer clear of for years, _decades. _

He could still feel the angel’s fingertips running up the underside of his wings, _pressing and caressing, _even with the appendages hidden away in a _different bloody realm. _And it tripped other thoughts, like a series of interconnected booby traps, each one triggering a bigger, badder fantasy.

_Turning in the angel’s arms, twisting and guiding so that they were face to face, but Aziraphale’s hands were still buried in his wings. Pressing together so tightly their closeness couldn’t be quantified, couldn’t ever be broken by anything just short of an act of God. Wrapping his arms around the angel, perhaps reciprocating by stroking the angel’s wings, trying to find his button, his live-wire. Leaning in, taking a long breath in at the base of the angel’s neck, catching that gorgeous scent of old parchment, and cinnamon, and sunshine on sand. Perhaps tasting it, letting his tongue slip out to follow the thick, pulsing line of his carotid, all the way up to the jaw. Canting his hips in, grinding against... _

“No, no, _no!” _ Crowley groaned, gripping his hair harder as he felt his hard length becoming uncomfortable in his tight denim trousers. _Stop it, stop this. Can’t get your bloody sinful thoughts anywhere near this beautiful, perfect_ angel!_ How dare you! How dare you sully his innocence with your impure thoughts, his sunshine with your darkness. This is dirty, this is lust, this is inappropriate! _

But it wasn’t, was it?

_‘Love and sex can coexist,’ _ Penny had said. At the time, he’d adamantly disagreed. Sex had always equaled lust, in Crowley’s extensive experience. Even when people thought it was love, it wasn’t. He’d never seen it happen, not once, so it must not exist? Right?

But if he knew anything, _anything at all_ about himself (which he tried not to, introspection was frowned upon, among demons), it was that he _loved Aziraphale. _ In the kind of mind-numbing, would-suffer-a-thousand-torments-just-to-see-you-smile kind of way. And... Aziraphale... he’d said it, hadn’t he? Not in so many words, but...

_‘I’ve never thought of harming myself before, but... the thought of a world with... no you...” _

“Urrrggghhhh,” Crowley growled again, shifting his hips and feeling his now full-blown erection straining.

“Alright in there, darling?” came a muffled, muted, cautious angelic voice.

“Fine!” Crowley yelped, making a mental note to keep his voice down, but...

Said mental note got enthusiastically run over by the runner-up thought...

_Darling. _

It echoed in Crowley’s mind like the sweetest Mozart, like the chilling notes of Chopin. It rolled down his spine, catching that damned traitorous erogenous spot on his wings as it went and making him shudder. He slammed a hand to his mouth to stop the groan that threatened, his other falling to the crotch of his trousers and pressing.

_Darling... oh, my darling. _

He bit down _hard_ on his own palm, feeling his hammering heartbeat against his tongue as he was helpless to stop the way his other hand began rubbing at his erection through the denim.

_Stop this, stop this hideous betrayal right now! If you’ve gotta have a wank, then think of something else, think of anyone else, for fuck’s sake. _

_Penny! Yes, think of Penny, the way she touches your wings, the way she moves when you’re inside her... _

It worked... for a solid four seconds.

The image he conjured in his brain was of the last time he’d been with her, restraining her to the bed frame with his tie and climbing on top of her, sending her over the edge three... no, four times before he ever got his own jollies. But the image morphed, and it wasn’t her deep purple bedspread, wasn’t her dark and unfamiliar home.

It was _this. _ This stupid country cottage, this stupid all-encompassing comfort. It wasn’t fast, needy, restrained and uncontrolled. It was the floral-and-lace bed in this silly South Downs cottage, it was _slow, _it was heady, it was 6000 years of staying apart suddenly crashing in like Moses releasing the seas.

It wasn’t Penny beneath him, but _Aziraphale. _ He wasn’t tied, he was touching, _exploring. _Crowley could feel those hands roving all over him, how perfect the pads of his expertly manicured fingertips would be as they traced every rib, circled each nipple. The way they would _curl_ against his chest as Crowley slowly lowered himself down on the angel...

_No! No, you worthless, pitiful, disloyal, traitorous sack of shit. That’s lust, he could Fall. Would Fall. Even if it’s only a snowball’s chance in Hell, even if the odds are one-in-a-million, it’s not worth it, you’re not worth it. Just for this? Just for this base, meaningless, human pleasure? You would condemn him to that pain, that torture, that knowledge... just for this! _

That almost worked, but, as it usually did, the doubt began to swell in the recesses of his mind. The tendrils of it crept forward, brushing against the weak, cracked mental dam he’d built to keep them out.

_But... what if it is love? What if it doesn’t matter? Aziraphale commits gluttony all the time, he’s a damn hedonist. What if, just like in everything else, Aziraphale wanted to indulge? _

_Just like he indulges that damn book collection, just like he indulges in those damn cream cakes. _

_The way he would miss a bit of cream on his fork, and go back in with that plush, pink tongue, licking the remnants from the silver cutlery with a practically sinful moan. _

Suddenly both of Crowley’s hands shot to his trousers, unbuttoning, unzipping, and pushing down to reveal his straining boxer briefs.

He whimpered, knowing he’d already rocketed past the point of no return, but still taking a moment before releasing himself to reconsider.

_Aziraphale is right outside. Your perfect, kind-of innocent angel is sitting right out there, and don’t think for a second he doesn’t know what you’re doing. He knows. _

_Oh, sweet lord, he knows. Is he thinking about it? Is he... imagining? Curious? Even if he didn’t want to participate... would he watch? Watch like the hapless voyeur he is... _

Crowley barely caught the moan that bubbled up his throat, reminding himself that Aziraphale didn’t need to be listening to a cheap porno through the door of this fucking vacation rental.

Frantically, he shoved his pants down to join his trousers at his thighs, his cock springing free and jerking with sensation as the air hit him. With a violently shaking hand, he reached out for one of the towels, bringing it up to muffle his mouth, and _fuck, it smells like him, how does it bloody smell like him, he doesn’t even shower. Just miracles himself clean. _

The effect was inspired, though. He felt himself grow impossibly harder, the scent traveling straight to his brain and creating vivid scenarios that accompanied that scent.

It didn’t matter who was in control, both options flashing behind his eyelids like a drive-in. _Leaning in to take in that lovely smell at the angel’s temple as he rocked and rode him for hours on the couch in the back of the bookshop. Sliding a few of his favorite black pillows under the angel’s hips as he clutched those perfect pillowy thighs and slid inside. The obscene sounds the angel would make, giving his cream cake moans a run for their damn money. The slick, tight heat around him as he pumped, a hand going for the angel’s arousal and making him scream... _

Mindless and unable to hold back anymore, Crowley pressed the towel tighter against his traitorous mouth, biting down as he took himself in his other hand, tight fist pulling quickly from root to tip, his thumb sliding over the precome at the slit and making his whole body jerk in reaction.

The heat and pleasure of it rocketed back up his spine, traveling through the nerve endings and into the ethereal plane to his wings. He cried out into the towel, his hips pushing forward into his fist as he felt his wings spasming in a slightly adjacent reality.

His imagination finally burst through the dam in his mind, and he pumped his fist faster and faster as he allowed himself the fantasy;

_Being pressed down under the heavy, reassuring weight of Aziraphale; anywhere, didn’t matter where. Like a fucking kaleidoscope, the options shuffled in his mind, his bare spine feeling the pressure of his overpriced mattress, the worn-out couch cushions in the bookshop, the smooth, mounded leather of a bench seat in the back of a certain vintage car. This stupid fucking floral bedspread in this ridiculous cottage. The options changed, but the starring role stayed the same; brilliant sapphire eyes, half-lidded with desire and intent on Crowley’s pleasure. Velvet-smooth fingertips caressing his wings, stroking that spot he’d been denying him for so long and bringing Crowley to the edge of ecstasy. Soft, warm flesh, undulating against him and setting Crowley aflame, every inch of him, in a way that made the Fall look like a lukewarm bath. _

_And the delicacies he’d speak; oh, my dear. My dearest, darling thing. Oh, Crowley... _

Crowley bucked hard into his hand, convinced for a moment he was about to come but only finding himself riding out an unbearable plateau of bliss that seemed to have no end.

_I love you, have loved you. For so long, and so passionately, the stars themselves hide from the brilliance. They cannot bear to look upon the ways I’ve loved you, for it shames them all. They shall throw themselves from the heavens, burning out and crying for a love half as strong as that which burns for you. I love you, Crowley. Always have. _

With a towel-muffled shout, he was coming hard into his hand, his abdomen spasming with it and making him jerk against the wall he’d apparently leaned on. He struggled to regain his breath, panting as he gave himself a few more leisurely strokes through the aftershocks, the overstimulation giving him a near euphoric high.

The shame was quick on its heels though, and Crowley barely managed to snap his fingers, clearing the mess and clothing himself before he slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands. He growled into them in frustration.

Sure, he’d _thought about _Aziraphale in a sexual way. Considered, watched the thought go by like a road sign. But now he had _fantasized... _used the thought of him to get off. _That... _he’d never done. It felt like a betrayal, like he’d stolen something, like he’d used those images all wrong.

Of course, he was a demon. Stealing was encouraged, _wrong_ was what he _was. _

He groaned, a heavy weight on his chest making it difficult to remember he didn’t need to breathe. He recalled an apropos quote he’d heard in a film once, one he’d adopted for his own personal code; _“love is a state of confusion in which the victim cannot distinguish between spiritual aspiration, carnal desire, and pride of ownership. The wise man satisfies the different thirsts at different fountains.” _

“Fuck!” Crowley grumbled into his hands, anger, and disappointment, and self-loathing boiling up and leaving a metallic taste on his tongue that made him want to vomit.

_Gone and mixed fountains, innit? _

The anger finally reached its boiling point, turning to rage.

_How dare you. How dare you soil something so pure, so perfect. This was perfect. And you had to go and ruin it, sully it with something so filthy, something so depraved—use his kindness, his comfort, his gentleness as fodder for your sick human fantasies. What is wrong with you. _

Crowley wanted to act out—kick and scream and throw things. He could feel it building in his bones like an itch, an itch that crawled through every vein, every muscle like a swarm of bees. He’d done it to his flat too many times to count. It was probably one of the main reasons the plants behaved so well.

But Aziraphale was right outside.

_You’ve already insulted his countenance once today, wouldn’t that just show him how much you appreciate all he’s done for you recently—throw a temper tantrum, destroy this horrendously decorated but thoughtful little holiday? Can’t even punish yourself properly without taking him down with you... _

With nowhere for the pent-up wrath to go, Crowley took his left hand into his mouth, biting down hard at his palm, feeling his fangs sinking in just adjacent the mark Lucifer had left there, reminding him what he was. And remind him it did, as he felt his own lukewarm blood spilling across his lips and across his tongue.

_You’re a demon. Doesn’t matter that you love him, doesn’t even matter if he loves you. You’ll never be good, you’ll never be right for him. Your touch will turn to ash against his skin, your lips would poison him. You’re wrong, you’re Fallen. _

“Crowley?”

The angel’s voice had the gall to be gentle, to be _tender,_ in the midst of this chaos. It didn’t quell Crowley’s wretched anger, but it paused it—he looked to the door as he heard the creak of Aziraphale leaning against it. He pulled back, drawing his teeth from his own flesh and prompting a yelp. He deigned not to answer, instead staring at the shadow under the door that signified Aziraphale’s presence.

“My dear, I... I know what you’re doing,” he practically whispered through the door.

Crowley scoffed, even more disgusted in himself.

“Yeah, no bloody shit,” he replied bitterly, closing his eyes and slamming the back of his skull against the wall. The pain was good. Like the punctures in his hand, it disciplined him for his unforgivable act.

“No. No, not... not that, my dear. I mean, right now. You’re punishing yourself, hating yourself. You do it quite a lot, Crowley. And I want you to know that... no, I _need you_ to understand that... it’s not necessary. What are you telling yourself? That you’re impure, that you shouldn’t have these thoughts, that you’ve... I dunno, destroyed something? Am I close?”

Crowley couldn’t help the bitter laugh.

“I am,” Aziraphale said in response. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Crowley, _please... _just...” he paused, an audible sigh filling the silence. “Stop punishing yourself for what you are. You can’t help it.”

“I can’t help it, but I can keep it from spreading,” he snapped back, looking down at his palm, his blood following the scarred flesh of the pentagram burned into it.

“Spr—_spreading?! Crowley, ‘demon’ is not contagious!” _

He couldn’t help but laugh genuinely at that. He could just picture the angel’s relieved smile at hearing it, but refused to let it break through.

“It is, though. Maybe not in the traditional sense. But... I could...” he paused, a lump rising in his throat. Something felt warm on his cheeks, warm and liquid. _“I could taint you, ruin you. I could make you Fall...” _

_“Make me Fall?!” _Aziraphale shrieked in exasperation. “Crowley, no one can make me Fall but _God. _ And if that were to happen, well... well that is _between me and God. Nothing you could do wou—”_

_“I could, though!” _ Crowley cried, slamming his head back against the wall again and finding among the stars it caused in his vision that what he was feeling were tears. They were warm and insistent, pouring down his face with a persistence that shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.

“I could... tempt you, I could push it too far, I could...”

“My dear, if you haven’t managed to tempt me yet, what makes you think you could do it now?” Aziraphale tried, obviously aiming for levity, judging by the uptick in his voice. His beautiful, melodic, church-bell voice.

Crowley groaned, sniffing angrily before speaking, his voice now a pathetic little squeak.

“Because now I’m free to, angel.”

A long silence followed, and he could hear Aziraphale as he shifted against the door.

“Crowley, would you please open the door. Please, just... let me in.”

The intention of his words was as crystal clear as his lovely eyes—he wasn’t just talking about the door.

Crowley considered, brushing his bloodless hand through his sweaty hair. How was he supposed to go out there, face him? Even if they didn’t talk about this, which was unlikely, Crowley would head for bed, and... they’d been sharing that, too. Aziraphale hadn’t slept since that very first night, but he joined Crowley in the bed, bringing any of the awful romance novels from the owner’s bookshelf and reading all night as Crowley huddled in next to him. And... that was just... not... plausible. How was he supposed to _climb into bed_ with Aziraphale with this... _this, _hanging over their heads?

“Crowley, _please.” _


	37. The South Downs, Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale coaxes Crowley out, but doesn't succeed in getting him to _talk to him_. He does what he can instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+, maybe, possibly... for some referenced sexuality and self-harm.

“Crowley, _please,” _Aziraphale begged, leaning in and resting his forehead against the chalky white bathroom door.

His heart _ached, _ached like it had been winched into a vice, which was slowly constricting. He felt guilty for causing this, for touching Crowley in a way that made him react like this. Because he knew, _he just knew, _even before approaching to speak to him, that Crowley was tearing himself apart with guilt over it.

And he’d even tried to warn Aziraphale. At the time, Aziraphale had just thought it was a heads-up; that this could happen. But now, hearing the curses and angry growls beyond the door, it was clear he’d been trying to tell him something; ‘if this happens, and it’s you, I’ll hate myself.’

And what was worse, 6000 years of pushing Crowley away, of shushing him when he spoke of such things, of blushing, and waving him off, of _blowing him off_ had led to this. Of course Crowley felt guilty, of course he felt obscene. Aziraphale had been telling him for _6000 years_ that reacting like this was sinful, was _wrong. _

But he’d never really meant those things. He was just repeating the party line, just spitting out what had been shoveled in by the truck loads. Surely Crowley knew that. Surely?

But as he listened, hearing the wall rattle as Crowley banged some part of himself against it in frustration, it was pretty clear that... he didn’t. He’d been so open, for so long, and all Aziraphale had shoved into that openness was denial, and rejection. And now, when they were finally free, when sides no longer mattered... Crowley had finally shut down, shut off, stopped trying. The sexual side of him was now bringing him shame and guilt, when really _there was nothing wrong with it. _

Humans did it, plenty of them. Most of them. And it was perfectly acceptable; it was a visceral, indescribable, _ineffable_ way to express love, to be vulnerable, to give oneself to another completely. And Crowley... Crowley was now trained to think it wasn’t.

Finally, after waiting, listening to the silence with a heart that couldn’t take it much longer, Aziraphale heard a shuffling beyond the door, and the lock turned. That was as far as he was apparently willing to offer the olive branch, though, because the door remained closed.

Cautiously, Aziraphale reached out, turning the knob and pulling the door open slowly, as if he might spook the demon.

Crowley was standing dejectedly, his bum perched against the countertop, one arm hanging by his side, and the other crossing over to hold it at the elbow. His eyes were downcast, fearful and downtrodden, and his expression was one of stoic resignation. His brows were pushed together in worry, as if he expected Aziraphale to react rashly, as with anger or offense.

Before he could do or say anything, however, his eyes were drawn down to something bright red in his periphery...

Blood was running down Crowley’s three longest fingers, wrapping around them and dripping onto the white tile floor.

“Oh, _Crowley!” _ he whined, rushing forward and grasping the demon’s wrist gently to bring it up to analyze.

Residing at the lowest part of his palm was an oval-shaped wound, the tell-tale pin-pricks of a bite mark lining its circumference. At its pinnacle, just below the blackened pentagram Lucifer had left, were two very deep punctures, indicating his fangs, oozing streams of blood.

Aziraphale sighed heavily, forgoing his instant need to chastise Crowley for hurting himself, in exchange for looking up at the demon’s tortured eyes with all the love and understanding he could muster.

Crowley refused to meet his eyes, however, still keeping them intently trained on the floor, the spatters of blood.

All at once, Aziraphale placed his palm over Crowley’s wounded one, and raised the other to cup his cheek affectionately, prompting with a gentle thumb beneath his chin for him to look up.

He did, bashfully, _brokenly_ meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, and suddenly the reddened lids and tear tracks were visible.

Aziraphale didn’t think his heart could hurt much more, but it did—_God, it hurt. _ Poor Crowley, in here alone, keeping himself silent and unassuming, keeping himself hidden away like the stain he believed he was, just because it was something he’d been led to believe was shameful, was offensive to an angel.

In a flurry of emotion, Aziraphale slid his hand back, around Crowley’s neck, and pulled him in to the tightest embrace he could manage, his other hand pouring healing energy into the wounded palm he was now clasping desperately. Crowley yelped, but it wasn’t immediately clear, with this head buried as it was at Aziraphale’s shoulder, if it was from surprise or pain. But either way, it was over rather quickly, and Crowley slowly relaxed into just _being held. _ His breath shook against Aziraphale’s ear, and he was vaguely aware of Crowley’s jaw moving; preparing to speak.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, Crowley. You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Aziraphale barked quickly, continuing to hold Crowley’s previously-injured hand tightly and realizing that he’d very much like to do it more often.

Crowley’s mouth closed again, and he made a very broken, overwhelmed sound.

“Now, I know you, you old serpent; you’re not going to want to talk about this, and very soon, you’re going to pull away from me and become cold and distant. Please don’t. We don’t have to talk about it, not ever, if you don’t want to. But don’t force yourself to struggle alone anymore. You’re not alone, and you never will be again. There will be parts of yourself you don’t wish to share with me, for whatever reason, and _that’s fine. _I will take no offense, I will not judge, and_ I certainly won’t be upset. _ That was yesterday’s Aziraphale, but he doesn’t exist anymore. He was blind, and naive, and quite frankly a bit _stupid...” _

Crowley giggled against him, and the way it vibrated against his neck made him seven shades of giddy.

“I’m working on what tomorrow’s Aziraphale might be, but all you need to know is; you needn’t fear him, or shy away from what he might think, or believe him inhospitable. He was a bit sheltered, and has intentionally steered clear of a lot of the things that make you... _you. _ But he’s... he’s trying, really. And sometimes he’ll need help. It’s exhausting, rotten work, reversing 6000 years of Stockholm syndrome. But he... he needs you, to shape him, to mold him into the angel he could be. But... for now...”

He pulled back, seeking out that pair of open, vulnerable, _waiting_ eyes.

“I think bed sounds nice. Yes?” he finished, squeezing both the back of Crowley’s neck and his hand, still clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s. He was absolutely weak for the way Crowley’s eyelids blinked slowly in enjoyment as he did.

Crowley tried to say ‘yeah’ as he nodded meekly, but he really just mouthed it. Aziraphale smiled in affirmation, finally pulling away and gesturing for Crowley to lead.

He did, shuffling somewhat bashfully for the bedroom, and Aziraphale followed. As he’d promised he would, from here on out.

Crowley paused on the opposite side of the bed, staring down at the sheets but not pulling them back. His fingers twitched, like he itched to, but something was stopping him.

_Was he... suddenly waiting for permission, waiting for Aziraphale to get in before him? _

Aziraphale sighed, pulling the sheets back and sliding confidently in. Crowley still didn’t join him—in fact his eyes darted around as if he was looking for an escape route.

Aziraphale stamped down his immediate pity, a hand held out in beckoning, nodding in affirmation.

“Crowley... nothing has changed. You’re going to go to sleep next to me, while I read a horrid romance novel,” he tried, waving his hand in beckoning once more when Crowley didn’t move.

Crowley halfheartedly giggled, but it rang a bit hollow as he finally slipped into the covers. He seemed sheepish; keeping far away from Aziraphale in the bed, his entire body rigid and tense.

Every night, Crowley had slept against him. A hand thrown over his stomach, his head on his shoulder, perhaps even a leg thrown haphazardly over his. Ever since that first night, it hadn’t been awkward, it hadn’t even been noted as out of the ordinary, for them. It was just something they did now, like they had adopted the Ritz, like they had adopted telephone calls.

Aziraphale sighed. “Is that really how you’re going to sleep?”

Crowley inhaled hard, holding it for a long moment before he scuttled over nervously, refusing to meet the angel’s eyes as he curled next to him, but still kept from touching—his head on his own pillow, his arms pulled in defensively against his own chest.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale began, knowing he’d promised they wouldn’t talk about this if Crowley didn’t want to, but... something needed to be said.

“Can... can you explain to me _why you reacted the way you did? _ Not... not the... sexual part...”

Crowley scoffed, an air of panic in it, making it more of a squeak.

“I mean...” Aziraphale hurried to continue. “Why... _why are you so terrified of me knowing?” _

Crowley groaned, raising a hand to cover his face. “You promised...” he whimpered pitifully. “You promised we wouldn’t talk about this.”

“Yes, well... I also can’t abide you cowering on the far side of the bed like I’m some kind of cockroach because you think... well, frankly my dear, I don’t know what you think. Will you just explain it to me?”

Crowley’s other hand rose to more securely bury his face, and he tensed hard.

_“Aziraphale... you promised...” _

The panicked desperation in the demon’s voice, combined with the way Crowley’s every muscle was tensed and ready to fire, to flee, made Aziraphale sigh in defeat and shelve his need for answers. That could wait.

“Alright,” he said softly, reaching out and pulling Crowley against him. He still fought it—still kept his arms caged against his chest. “Alright. I know I did. It’s... it’s fine. Relax, my dear. You’ve nothing to fear from me. Get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

And he was, every night. And as he’d promised, they didn’t talk about it. Not this night, or any of the nights to come, as, after weeks of them, he finally finished his work of healing Crowley. A few things hung in the air between them, but after 6000 years of it, they were both skilled at ignoring the Hell out of them.


	38. Return to London, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale return to London, and with it, Penny. Revelations are shared, and maybe a couple of fears too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen.

Penny released a very undignified squeal as she entered the bookshop. She’d been practically staking out the place for the first sign of their return, and it had finally come in the form of a shining vintage car parked out front.

“Ohhhhh, you’re back!!” she exclaimed with childlike enthusiasm as she released the door, allowing it to sit ajar as she made a b-line for Aziraphale.

She hadn’t even realized how much she’d missed him, but it swelled through her when she beheld the angel’s glimmering smile as it shone through the din of his musty bookshop like those first few magnificent rays of sunshine over the horizon at dawn. She flung herself at him, wrapping him in her arms and humming with happiness when he actually clamped on and lifted her up into a delightfully suffocating hug, complete with the twist back and forth like her father did when she was young.

It occurred to her as she hung there, nostalgic bliss almost making tears come to her eyes, that she’d never actually hugged Aziraphale before. And it was exactly as one would have thought hugging a literal angel would be; warm like the concrete she used to lie on after getting out of the pool, tight like being tucked in by her mum at night, comforting like smelling those first few whiffs of nanna’s chocolate chip cookies.

“Oh, Penny! I missed you too, sweetheart,” he said, his voice muffled in her hair. She squeezed hard one final time before releasing him to step back and study him.

He was simply beaming—the worry lines that had creased his brows and forehead before they’d left replaced with a soft, relaxed, and genuinely happy demeanor. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes sparkling like champagne bubbles. And his gaze, while it had detoured to Penny when she came barreling in, had already returned to Crowley with such adoration and care that Penny felt she was intruding just by beholding it.

“It’s so good to have you back. How are you?” she asked of the angel.

“Quite well, quite well indeed. And yourself?” he said, shrugging from his tan overcoat and leaning into the back room to deposit it on the rack. Crowley stepped back out of the way to allow him past, giving off his usual air of practiced but clearly feigned disinterest.

“Great, actually. Finished up the fall semester, so just one more, and I’ll be a uni alum!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear,” Aziraphale said, his smile widening when Crowley leaned with deliberate nonchalance on the door frame to the back.

“Crowley,” Penny greeted, pausing before she could ask how he was. Nearly a year of knowing him told her that she would get one of two things if she asked him that; one, a lie to deflect from himself as a subject of conversation, or two—saturated sarcasm with a hint of defensiveness that stemmed from thousands of years of knowing that he couldn’t admit to being happy, or content, or anything remotely positive.

Without even thinking, she held out her hand as an offering, palm up, providing him with option C.

He stared down at it with the expression of a man who has just been handed a skinned tuna, before realization sank over his handsome features. She could practically see the relief as it washed first over his tense brows, then his pursed lips; he could answer her unspoken question equally silently, without having to fight his aversion to admitting what he was feeling out loud. And if he didn’t feel like allowing her to know his emotional state, he could simply refuse to give her his hand. The pressure was gone, the obligation was gone.

A minute grin crooked up the corner of his lips, and he raised his left hand. It was quick—a simple drag of the pad of his fingertip against her palm. But it was enough.

He was happy. Unbelievably happy. It spread through her like the first sip of a fine wine—radiating outward from where his skin met hers and warming her like pure sunshine. His pain was gone, his fear was... well, not gone, but almost dormant, hiding behind layers and layers of gratitude and cautious optimism. And there was also something familiar, but it was immeasurably increased from the last time she’d felt it. It made her heart race, her breath leave her lungs, her ears ring. It made her skin crawl like it did upon hearing a beautiful song, like it did upon reading her favorite book. And it only got stronger as Crowley’s eyes bashfully turned away from Penny and landed on...

Aziraphale.

Penny decided not to comment as she beheld a bit of color coming to Crowley’s high cheeks. Using her clairvoyance to gauge his mood in the future seemed like a wonderful idea, and he’d never allow it again if she voiced what she learned. So she smiled genuinely at him for the trust he’d just offered, and turned back to face Aziraphale.

“How was the cottage? And the town?” she asked, watching as the angel absently checked his pocket watch.

“Oh, simply divine! Er...” he paused, grinning devilishly at the comparison. “It was just... _so peaceful, _Penny, you wouldn’t believe... and the _stars at night?! _ I haven’t seen such a clear view in... in... oh, in hundreds of years, I’m sure. Oh, and the people! Such characters! There was this couple that ran the bakery, oh they were so _interesting! _ So many experiences between the two of them, and _oh! The florist!” _

Penny couldn’t help the burst of laughter that came out as she beheld the angel’s enthusiasm. Beside her, Crowley rolled his eyes, but she could tell in the way his lips curled that it was more fond than anything.

“He spoke to his plants as well! But he was so gentle and kind, and... _soft spoken! _ And his greenery just flourished! It goes to show, you get more flies with honey than...”

The angel paused, his expression going distant as he obviously tried to remember the expression.

“Shit,” Crowley said in a deadpan.

“Language, Crowley! Please!”

“No... shit, angel, that’s the saying. You get more flies with honey than shit. Although I’ve got a prince of demons that could probably prove that_ particular_ idiom wrong. And are you calling my method of horticulture shit?!”

“Well,” Aziraphale said primly, wiggling his shoulders in triumph while his face settled into an expression of smug satisfaction._ “You_ said it, not me.”

“Oooooo,” Crowley growled, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward to pinch Aziraphale’s arm. The angel yelped, jerking away and rubbing his arm, but his face betrayed him as he looked at Crowley with... what Penny could only identify as adoration.

Something had changed, that much was clear. Before they’d left, Aziraphale and Crowley were still playing the game. Still stuck in their respective repressed mindsets—that they couldn’t be seen being kind, affectionate, or even cordial to one another. But it was clear in the open way they faced one another, Crowley’s playful banter, Aziraphale’s uninhibited heart eyes... the trip to the South Downs had fundamentally changed the nature of their relationship. And Penny couldn’t be happier for them. Denying it was unhealthy.

“Oh, that reminds me. The Monsterra is still in the boot. Be a love, Crowley, and go and fetch it?”

Crowley glowered at the angel, but Penny couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t like being told what to do, or because he’d referred to him so sweetly.

“Thought that was for me?” he said, not budging from his criminally nonchalant lean.

Penny grinned, realizing that this meant Aziraphale had given it as a gift. A plant. As a gift. To Crowley. From Aziraphale. It was unbearably charming.

“Yes, well... my place could use some livening up, don’t you think? And it won’t be any trouble, I’ll see that it’s watered, and you come by enough, you can... you know... _chastise_ it then.”

Penny couldn’t be sure, but the inflection in Aziraphale’s statement made it sound like he was fishing for an excuse to have Crowley come by on a more regular basis. And the way his brows rose hopefully practically confirmed it.

“Fiiiiine,” Crowley drawled, throwing his hips forward first and peeling himself away from the door frame. “But if I hear you whispering _sweet nothings_ to it even once, so help me angel, I will throw it into my flat from here.”

“Wouldn’t _dream_ of it, my dear,” Aziraphale replied sarcastically as he watched Crowley saunter through the shop and out the front door.

Penny put on her best ‘waiting for an explanation’ face, but she had to wear it for longer than planned as Aziraphale continued to watch Crowley out the window while he pulled a fern from the Bentley, a sappy smile plastered to his angelic face.

“It really was quite lovel— what? Why are you looking at me like that?!” Aziraphale huffed, straightening his jumper self-consciously and holding his chin high with dignified denial.

Penny shook her head, a satisfied grin stretching her lips.

“Nothing, no reason. Just... it’s nice to see you so happy. Both of you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, relaxing a little. “Yes, well... we had a lot of time, to... to...” he waved his hand repetitively, obviously trying to reel in the acceptable words. “Talk. Discuss things. Things that had been avoided, or... better left unsaid. But it just... seemed right. Apropos, as it were. Not much else to do, really, when he wasn’t feeling well most of the time. But honestly it...”

He paused, appearing shy for a moment as he looked down and fiddled with his pocket watch. His brows drew together with such worry that Penny almost stopped him—directed the conversation to happier things.

“It was such a relief, to... just the two of us, with... without any walls, barriers, r-rules...” His voice wavered, and suddenly Penny worried he might cry.

“Hey...” she whispered, stepping forward and laying a hand on his shoulder. With the clothing separating his skin from hers, she wasn’t able to glean anything from him, but at this point she didn’t really need it. His struggle was plain in every inch of his body language. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you-you didn’t,” he said, putting on a brave face like a Mardi Gras mask. “No, it’s not that. It’s just... we could have been... _like this_... open, honest, _forgiving_ with one another for... so much longer. With our respective head offices hanging over our heads, we were both so... _so afraid. Terrified. _But if we hadn’t been, if we’d just... admitted this long ago, that we care about each other, that we didn’t want anything to happen to the other... it’s just. We’ve wasted so much time, Penelope.”

She gave him a bittersweet smile, soothing her hand over his shoulder a few times.

“The one charm about the past is that it is the past,” she said confidently, her eyebrows rising expectantly.

Aziraphale brightened, his head snapping up to look her in the eyes, a toothy, dopey grin appearing.

“Oh, Wilde! Penny, Penny... you sure do know how to cheer up this old angel’s book-loving heart!”

Penny smiled, pulling her hand back as Crowley re-entered the shop.

“I know somebody who gives me pointers,” she said, looking at Crowley as he set the small potted plant on the counter with disregard.

“What?” he said, noticing that the two of them were both staring at him knowingly.

“Nothing,” both Penny and Aziraphale replied at the same time. They giggled at each other, and Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“Secrets don’t make friends, angel,” he said, pointing accusingly at Aziraphale.

“Ah, but they make for much more fun, my dear,” he said, swiping Crowley’s finger away.

The bell over the door jingled pleasantly as Crowley opened his mouth to argue, and a small stampede of children entered, followed by a very exhausted-looking man nursing a comically large coffee mug.

“Oh. The Whitmores,” Aziraphale huffed, his shoulders falling.

“What’s wrong with them?” Penny asked, watching as a sandy blonde boy pressed his face against a low row of books, and declared with unbridled enthusiasm; “this place smells like grandpa!”

“They walked in, that’s what’s wrong with them,” Crowley said under his breath. Penny giggled, watching as a second boy, possibly the first boy’s twin, slammed his face into the books to his brother’s right, shouting “you’re right, it does!” as a handful of books on the opposite side of the aisle were forced from the shelf and careened to the floor.

“No, it’s... they’re very rowdy,” Aziraphale grumbled, watching as a smaller girl began running up and down aisles and dragging her hand against the leather spines, chanting something about fish. “Their father lets them run amuck through the stores after he’s pumped them with sweets at Whittard’s. Says it tuckers them out before taking them home to their mother, but... it’s my shop that suffers for it.”

The angel pulled a face then, resigned annoyance thinning his lips.

Crowley straightened, tapping his hand on the counter once.

“I’ve got this,” he said with cool confidence, striding into the open center of the shop. “Oi!” he barked mischievously, following it with a sharp whistle and putting on such a look of deviousness that the children were helpless to do anything but cave to their own curiosity.

Beside Penny, Aziraphale settled with a hum.

“Terribly good with children, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as he shimmied in closer to Penny so that he could watch without his view obstructed by the till counter.

“Seriously?!” Penny whispered harshly, turning to stare at the side of the angel’s face. “But...”

“Yes, yes, I know. _He’s a demon,” _Aziraphale said, the comical voice he imitated making Penny giggle. “Doesn’t mean he’s naturally dispelling to people. In fact, quite the opposite. Same reason some of the most deadly predators are also the most alluring...”

“Oh, I’m definitely telling him you called him ‘alluring’,” Penny taunted, to which the angel simply tutted at her.

They both fell silent, then, as they both watched with fascination. Crowley had only managed to catch the attention of the two boys; the girl still skipping up and down aisles and singing. Crowley, however, did not seem bothered.

He knelt before the brothers, his tone so hushed that Penny couldn’t make it out, but she could tell by his dramatically waggling eyebrows and leaned-in posture that he was being as mischievous as demonly possible. And it only piqued the boys’ curiosity when he looked over his shoulder conspiratorially, ensuring their father was nowhere close.

The smile abandoned Penny’s face as Crowley reached up and removed his glasses. Her heart feeling like it had joined Cirque du Soleil, she started forward, the memory of several horrific stories he’d told her about humans discovering his eyes playing games with her brain.

“No, no,” Aziraphale whispered, a hand flying out to catch her by the arm. “It’s alright. Just watch.”

Penny looked back as both boys drawled out long, awed “whooooa” sounds.

This caught the attention of the girl, who popped out from the end of an aisle like a jack in the box, and cried “what?!”

She tromped over, her sneakers lighting up as she slammed into her brothers, demanding “let me see!”

She, too, stilled, staring with fascination at Crowley’s bright yellow eyes.

“Are those real!” she yelled. Crowley did not seem bothered by her volume.

“Yep,” he replied quietly, maintaining his air of devious secrecy, keeping the children leaning in and staying close if they wanted to hear him. Penny turned her head, straining to hear.

“Born like this,” he said simply, turning his glasses over in his hand and cleaning them casually on the underside of his jacket.

“They’re like a snake’s!” one boy declared.

“Are you a Pokémon?” the other asked.

“Can you see in the dark?” the girl shrieked.

Crowley seemed impressed with the girl, turning his attention to her.

“Why, yes. Yes I can,” he said quietly, folding his glasses and stowing them in an inner pocket of his jacket.

“What’s that like?” the girl asked again, and the boys both quieted to hear his answer.

“Hmmm,” Crowley said dramatically, obviously feigning deep thought. “Dunno. It’s... it’s like seeing during the day, but it’s all... sort of tinted, like... like a film or a filter over it. Heat sources stand out. Warm cars, warm drinks. _People.” _

With that, he bopped the girl on the nose, and she giggled maniacally.

“Do you eat mice?” one of the boys asked, to which Crowley actually laughed.

“As long as they’re _cooked first!” _ he hissed, imitating a grilling noise while curling up his hands in a frightening yet hilarious pantomime of a dead mouse, making all three children groan varying degrees of ‘ewwww.’

“Do you live underground?” the other boy asked, tilting his head like a curious puppy and making Penny’s heart flutter fondly.

“Nah,” Crowley grunted, leaning back and letting himself fall from a kneeling position to sit cross-legged in front of them. “The secret snake society has made loads of progress, these days. We live just like you, now. Houses, gourmet restaurants...”

The girl boldly stepped forward, sitting on Crowley’s lap and reaching into his coat for his glasses. She struggled to unfold them for a moment before triumphantly slipping them onto her face, where they immediately began to slide down her nose.

“Why do you wear these?” she asked. “Your eyes are so cool!”

At this, Crowley stilled, and Penny’s heart ached for him. He cleared his throat, a hand holding the girl in place as she nearly tumbled off his leg.

“Because not many people think so,” he replied. “Most people are afraid of them. People fear what they don’t understand.”

The children were quiet for a moment, until one of the boys declared “that’s sad. I’m not scared. I think they’re awesome!”

Crowley smiled so genuinely, Penny thought her heart might leap from her chest and suffocate her from the outside.

“Thanks, poppet,” Crowley said, taking his sunglasses off the girl’s face and handing them to the boy, who squealed and placed them onto his face, striking a pose that made his siblings begin to laugh.

“Excuse me.”

Penny and Aziraphale turned, finding the father’s dark-circled eyes imploring them.

“Oh, yes, my good lad?” Aziraphale asked, his tone attempting to be chipper but coming out a bit stale.

“Wondering if you’ve got any Winnie the Pooh? Ella there is obsessed. I know there’s a few we haven’t got yet, and her birthday is coming up.”

Aziraphale brightened.

“Oh, yes, I do!” he said, hurrying from the counter with a wave and beckoning the man to follow.

Penny stayed, watching as the children crawled all over Crowley, asking a small arsenal of questions. He answered every single one, his patience bordering on... well, on angelic. She felt conflicted, seeing such an innocent display happening in the same place Crowley had been exorcised; writhing and screaming in pain before collapsing, completely lifeless to that same floor.

She shivered at the thought, glad to have Aziraphale return to the register carrying three small books, the father following closely behind, his weary look replaced with excitement as he fished his wallet from a pocket.

“Oh, my wife will be thrilled!” he said, peeking over his shoulder and looking mortified to find one of his boys hanging off of Crowley’s back, his hands locked together around his neck.

“Lane! Get off the poor man, you’re going to strangle him! I’m so sorry...”

“Nah, s’alright,” Crowley choked around the boy’s grip, motioning to the other for his glasses, and receiving them immediately. He slid them on, standing and prompting a ‘weeeee’ from the boy hanging from his neck like a cape. “Don’t need to breathe anyway.”

Everyone laughed, for vastly different reasons. Crowley pitched forward, causing the boy to fling around to his front, allowing him to bend over and set the child’s feet lightly to the ground.

“How much do I owe you?” the father asked, gesturing to the books.

Aziraphale looked like he’d been in a trance, but he practically jumped when addressed.

“Oh, right. Yes. Well... you’re very lucky, we’re having a children’s book sale. Buy two, get one free. It’ll just be... er... £10,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, clearly having made up that sum on the spot. Penny knew for a fact they were worth quite a bit more.

“Delightful!” the man said, handing over the money. “He sure is good with them. I can never keep up. A question every second, it seems, but multiplied by three!”

Aziraphale smiled, but it was aimed over the father’s shoulder.

“Yes. Yes, he is,” he said, putting the note in the till and tearing off the receipt. “Perhaps wait until she’s a little older to give her that one,” he continued, pointing to the third book as he bagged them. “Signed by Milne, that one.”

The man went stark white. “Oh! Oh, well... surely it’s worth more than five quid, allow me to...”

“Oh, nonsense,” Aziraphale said with a flippant wave of his manicured hand. “It’s priceless to her, that’s what matters. Consider it the free one!”

The man colored, taking the bag from the angel with awe.

“Thank you! Thank you very much, that’s... that’s so kind of you! I will make sure she takes very good care of it!”

Aziraphale nodded graciously, and the man turned, patting a leg as if he were beckoning a dog.

“Come on, then,” he called, and the children abandoned Crowley and ran to their father. The girl stopped, however, to wave at the demon. Crowley waggled his fingers in the most menacing possible wave that could be given to a toddler, which, all things considered, was about as menacing as Wile E. Coyote.

“Bye snake man!” she yelled as the group made for the door.

“Dad, that man has snake eyes! And can see in the dark!” one of the boys declared.

“Oh? That’s nice. What are you feeling for supper? Your mother will be wanting me to pick it up,” the father said, his tone distracted and bored.

“And _that_ is why you needn’t worry about kids seeing them,” Crowley said as he approached, leaning casually on a palm against the counter.

Penny merely gaped at him, knowing her mouth was hanging open and unable to close it.

“Wot?” Crowley barked, his lingering grin hardening into an acceptably demonic scowl.

“That!” Penny said, pointing at the spot on the floor where he’d entertained the children. “That was... I didn’t expect... well, you... and kids...”

“What?” Crowley asked again, his scowl turning to indignation. “They’re just kids, is all. Curious. All they want is answers. They don’t understand, so s’alright when they ask things that people typically shouldn’t talk about. S’not their fault that they don’t know. And they can tell when you’re condescending to them, using a ‘kid’ voice. They don’t recognize it as sssuch, yet, but... they know. They just want to be respected, they don’t want to be told ‘no,’ when all they’re doing is trying to learn. Don’t underssstand when people get upset with them, just because they’re asking about topics adults would rather they not. And it’s fine that they don’t know. Just... bloody anssswer them. That’s all they want...”

The comparison was not lost on Penny, and judging by the stricken look on Aziraphale’s face, he hadn’t missed it either. Penny had once drunkenly asked Crowley what led to his Fall, and after a bit of verbal bobbing and weaving, he’d muttered something about asking too many questions.

It was rather sad, the kinship Crowley clearly felt with children. They were forgiven their curiosity. They were forgiven their questions. They didn’t burn for it.

Before she could respond, Aziraphale sidestepped, raising a hand and rubbing comfortingly across Crowley’s back, who bristled at the sudden attention.

“Ah, come off it, just got a little carried away is all, don’t bloody read into it,” he said defensively, stepping out from under the angel’s hand and keeping his eyes downcast.

Aziraphale took the hint, but continued to burn his fond smile into the side of the demon’s face.

In Crowley’s bowed and sheepish posture, Penny sensed that he was desperately hoping to take the focus off of himself, so she stepped forward and spoke up.

“Oh, Aziraphale. I, er... I erm... I sold some... books... while you were gone...” she said, suddenly feeling as if she was admitting to a murder while standing in the middle of Scotland Yard. Aziraphale, for his part, paled as if she _had_ just confessed to a murder.

Hurrying to avoid an angelic smiting, Penny spat out, “oh, but it was only the Bibles. The ones Heaven said you had to get rid of! I thought... I thought it might be... easier... on you, if... if I was to do it for you. The note didn’t say you specifically had to do it, and I thought... it would be much more painful to have to hand them over...yourself...”

She trailed off, terrified that she would finally find out what those same bibles meant by “heaven’s wrath.”

Aziraphale softened visibly, his rigid shoulders falling and his expression taking on an air of solemn gratitude.

“Oh. Well, that’s...” his Adam’s Apple bobbed, and he cleared his throat. Penny died to touch him, to glean if he was feeling heartbreak or happiness.

“That’s er... yes, very kind. Very kind indeed. Thank you Penny...”

Seeing the conflicted and twisted look on his face, it appeared he was feeling both.

“Should I not have? Did you want to... I dunno, _see them off?” _ she asked, wondering how she hadn’t thought of this, and _oh God, I’ve disappointed an angel, I’m definitely going to Hell now... _

“No, no! Don’t be silly, they’re only books...” he said, waving a hand dismissively, but his face betrayed the sentiment.

“But they’re not, though, Aziraphale. Not to you...” she said, looking to Crowley for help and receiving nothing but a dramatically jutted-out lip and twice as dramatic shrug.

“Really, sweetheart. It’s alright. It’s just a little depressing, knowing they’re all gone. It’s not you. That was... truly, very sweet of you, sparing me the... the trouble. I just... get attached to things... you know, when they’ve been around for so long...”

Penny smiled deviously, looking up at Crowley, who appeared to be having an internal struggle on deciding whether or not to lay a comforting hand on Aziraphale.

“You don’t say,” she said, winking at the demon and causing his eyes to narrow at her. “But that’s good to know, because Heaven’s note only said ‘the demon cannot buy them’,” she said, making air quotes.

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, sheer glittering optimism shining through his now hopeful eyes.

“I couldn’t get them all, I wanted you to get what they were worth, and I couldn’t afford them. But I did buy this one for myself. I put the money in the till, I promise,” she said, pulling what Aziraphale affectionately referred to as ‘The Buggre Alle This Bible’ from her backpack where she had stowed it under the counter.

“Oh, _wonderful!” _Aziraphale gasped. “Just knowing you have it... oh, that warms my heart,” he dithered a bit, but cheerily, before pointing excitedly at the Bible and exclaiming, “oh, er... Genesis 3:25. I should think you’ll get a great amount of amusement from it.”

She nodded, sliding the book back into her bag and leaving it on the spinning stool there.

“Well!” Crowley exclaimed, clapping his hands together and putting on an air of relieved finality. “That’s that, then. I should be getting back home. Not that I don’t trust your horticultural skills, Penny, but there’s a certain panache to demonic threats that I don’t want those plants to grow out of. Er... pun intended.”

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. “You did invent them.”

“Yes, that one I did actually do,” Crowley said cheerily, his eyes going distant for a moment.

“So what was the first ever pun, then?” Penny asked curiously, to which Aziraphale and Crowley shared a thoughtful look.

“Can’t recall,” Crowley mused, sharing a slight nod with Aziraphale. “But knowing me, it was probably snake related. Something about ‘slithering into bed,’ or such like.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Aziraphale...” Crowley began, but his train of thought hit a brick wall. He clearly wanted to be flippant and, well, _Crowley_ about his goodbye, but as his eyes fell on the angel, he changed course. His expression stiffened, as did the rest of him. In fact, he suddenly looked almost sullen.

“I, er...” he said, his eyes flitting quickly to Penny behind the glasses, and despite them, she could see it was the telltale ‘I wish she wasn’t here so I could say what I mean.’ She supposed she could see herself out, but that would only make it more obvious. So she settled for turning to her backpack and pretending the Buggre Alle This Bible needed re-situating.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and she didn’t need to be looking at him to feel the sincerity. It came off of him like a heat lamp. “Really. You were right. Can enjoy living again, thanks to you.”

“Oh...” Aziraphale tutted, but he clearly didn’t know how to respond to such genuine gratitude, so he simply said it again, “oh, come now.”

“I know, I know,” Crowley replied, his usual tone returned. “And don’t get used to this... me being nice. I’m—”

“I know, _you’re not nice,” _ Aziraphale said fondly, playfully shoving Crowley’s arm with such little enthusiasm that it barely shifted his coat. “Now get out of here, before I have to kick you out like a common customer!”

“Right,” Crowley said, clapping Aziraphale on the back and making him grunt. “Tchao.”

Penny grinned as Crowley turned to leave, all angles and sauntering coolness, but something began to hit her. It felt like that feeling you get when you’re being watched, or when you’re going up a set of dark stairs—mounting panic that only got worse the longer it went on. She could feel the hairs standing up on her arms and the back of her neck, felt like bolting, like hiding, like screaming. And with every quiet footfall of Crowley’s fine snakeskin shoes (if they were, in fact, shoes), it grew ten times worse. To the point that, within seconds, Penny felt lightheaded, felt her vision spinning, her ears ringing, her equilibrium completely thrown off.

It didn’t take long to figure out that these feelings weren’t her own. She’d had panic attacks before, or something like it, she thought, but she knew what it felt like, what brought it on. This was familiar in a foreign way. It was coming from someone else.

She spun, still finding Crowley cheerily pulling the shop door open, inhaling a long breath of SoHo air as he adjusted his sunglasses.

Turning, Penny realized...

The further Crowley got from Aziraphale, the more he began to come undone—his chin quivering slightly, his eyes distant and unfocused, his fingers trembling, his unnecessary breaths quickening.

“Aziraphale?” she asked quickly, and without another moment’s hesitation, she clamped her hand around his.

There is a level of anxiety which, at a certain density, is no longer fathomable by human beings. This is not to say, however, that humans cannot experience it or suffer from it, but it is rather so intense that its sheer existence cannot be quantified or described, in any language. It ceases to be a worldly thing, and becomes tangential with the cosmos—vast, unending, and horrifying.

With each step Crowley took, this monumental grief was overwhelming the angel, and with each inch of distance put between them, it was multiplying. Words were suddenly jumbled up in Aziraphale’s mind, and thus in Penny’s, and only a few were left available... as if they were the only ones the angel ever had or ever would know.

“Crowley! Don’t go!” Penny cried, feeling herself completely numb except to the knowledge that she would physically fall if Crowley kept walking, kept moving farther away.

The demon turned in the doorway, and everything hung in a delicate balance—Penny was very aware that an angel was about to shatter, and this knowledge obviously hit Crowley in the forehead as he beheld the unbridled terror on Aziraphale’s face, and indeed, Penny’s too, as she shared it. For a split second, no one moved. It was like the collective pause in a room as a wine glass teeters over and plummets to the hardwood.

With a loud _snap_, suddenly all Penny could see was black feathers.

Pulling her hand back and out of Aziraphale’s came with a wave of such relief that, for a moment, she thought she might pass out. Beside her, behind the curtain of curled wings, Aziraphale appeared to be struggling to breathe, despite not needing to.

“I’m so— so sorry, my dear, I— m’not sure what—came over me. Was fine only—only a moment ago, I... I...”

His hands were shaking violently, one of them pressed over his heart, his face twisted up in pain.

Crowley looked panicked for only a few seconds, before he pulled Aziraphale against him, holding him so tightly his arms began to shake.

“No, no... _I’m sorry,” _he croaked, his voice unsteady as he spoke into Aziraphale’s disheveled hair. “I’ll stay. Let’s... er... we’ll get Chinese takeaway or something. Stay here. Both of us.”

That said, Crowley’s trembling wings collapsed a bit, and he turned to look at Penny.

_Thank you, _ he mouthed, looking both grateful and terribly overwhelmed.

_Welcome, _Penny mouthed back, grabbing her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. Taking one last look at a panicky angel and comforting demon, she smiled a bittersweet smile, pointing to the door. _I’m gunna go... _she mouthed again.

Crowley nodded, trying to maneuver an angel on the verge of collapse into the back room.

She tried not to snoop as she hurried for the door to give them their privacy, but may have overheard Crowley saying something about never leaving again, if that was what the angel wanted. She smiled, pulling the door closed behind her and hearing it lock immediately, a comical sign appearing in the window reading;

_Closed until further notice. _  
_I am not sorry for the inconvenience. _  
_Yes, I’m aware I just reopened. _  
_Feel free to discuss your frustrations with the door, it’ll care more. _


	39. Return to London, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Aziraphale's panic attack, he and Crowley have a conversation. Concessions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+
> 
> Possible trigger warning: descriptions of a panic attack

Crowley maneuvered the incredibly tense and hyperventilating angel into the back room, as one might a statue—rocking back and forth on unbending knees and keeping him pulled uncomfortably tight against him. 

He felt so laughably out of his element, he was sure he’d somehow been flung into an alternate dimension—one in which Aziraphale was the delicate one, always on the brink of a meltdown, not Crowley. Sure, the angel was fussy, and picky, and honestly a bit pious at times... but he never _lost it completely. _That was Crowley’s thing. Comforting, cooing, _being affectionate, reassuring... _ Crowley knew how, but... in the same way astronomers know _how_ to be astronauts. In a practical, non-applicable sense.

But, as he felt the angel trembling against him and clinging to his jacket out of pure desperation... he didn’t have a choice.

The cottage came to mind then, the numerous times Aziraphale had to comfort Crowley in his many moments of weakness. He drew on what Aziraphale had done, pausing before the couch to simply hold him. Depositing him on its ridiculous tartan surface would mean letting him go, and... judging by the fact that this had apparently been brought on by Crowley walking away, _leaving... _ that wasn’t an option. 

So he stood, still as stone, wings wrapped all the way around to Aziraphale’s back, allowing the angel to slowly relax—his breaths evening out and his fists releasing their death clamp on Crowley’s Saville coat.

“S—so sorry, my dear boy, I... I... don’t know what came over me...” Aziraphale whimpered, releasing Crowley’s coat and fretfully smoothing out the wrinkles caused by his fists.

Crowley grumbled unhappily, knowing Aziraphale knew damn well what ‘came over him’, but electing to shelve his own agitation in exchange for pushing forward, suggesting the angel sit down.

He did, collapsing with a huff to the couch and allowing Crowley to pull back, hiding his wings away as he did.

“Gunna grab some whiskey, yeah?” he asked, worried Aziraphale would spiral again if Crowley disappeared from view without an explanation why.

Aziraphale nodded, raising a terribly shaking hand to cover his eyes and rub at his temples.

Crowley resisted the urge to prod the angel as he gathered the crystal decanter Aziraphale kept on his desk, and two ornate glasses.

Sighing, he sauntered slowly back over, setting the glasses on the coffee table and filling them. He handed Aziraphale his, but did not take a seat beside him—instead, pacing back irritably to the fireplace, snapping to bring it to life as he leaned against the hearth.

“You wanna... tell me what that was?” he said, forceful but gentle, taking a sip of his whiskey and staring at the angel over the rim of the glass.

Aziraphale appeared taken aback, pausing his own glass halfway to his lips and huffing grumpily.

“Well, I already said, didn’t I? I’ve no idea what—”

“Bullshit,” Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale actually let out an exasperated little squeak. “You’re a bloody hypocrite, you know that?”

Aziraphale huffed louder, leaning forward and placing his drink back onto the coffee table.

“I’m _quite certain_ I’ve no idea what you—”

Crowley hissed impatiently, his mind stirring up memories of the angel’s impassioned proclamations to him in the cottage.

_“If you want something, ask for it. If you need something, ask for it! Trust me, those who care about you will always provide. _Sound familiar? You want me to open up, to forget my 6000 years of brainwashing, of having to stay back, of not being able to confide in you, because it was risky, because it was dangerous, _because it wasn’t allowed. _But you won’t give me the same courtesy? You know damn well what happened. You panicked... at the thought of me leaving, couldn’t bear it. But Penny had to call me back; you were just going to let me walk out. Just stand there, silently suffering, and for what? Because you didn’t want me knowing you needed me? Because you were disappointed in yourself? For feeling weak, for _needing anyone? _Boy, does that sound familiar—oh, yes, it’s exactly what you told me I was doing!”

Aziraphale was clearly shocked at Crowley’s tone and volume, but not so shocked that he couldn’t answer.

“Well, _you were!” _ he practically shouted, rocketing to his feet. “And don’t you give me this malarkey as if you actually did as I asked. You’re no paragon of openness, Crowley. You were seconds away from shifting to avoid my questions. You think I didn’t know exactly what _happened to you?! _ You became aroused by the way I touched you, and you ran away.”

At this, Crowley felt himself flush violently, his skin chilling and blood running cold as he straightened against the stone hearth. Aziraphale did not relent, rounding the coffee table and approaching Crowley. “You refused to _talk to me, _even though I asked you, _begged you. _I made it explicitly clear that I _don’t care, _not anymore. I’m not offended by your sexual nature, I’m not scared. And you still wouldn’t talk to me. So don’t come at me with this... this... _accusation, _ when you yourself did the _same thing to me. _You’ve no right to request honesty from me when you won’t give it.”

At this point, Aziraphale was inches away, and he was practically glowing with fury, the heat coming off of him putting the fire at Crowley’s back to shame.

Crowley swallowed hard, averting his gaze down at the minimal amount of floor between them. Aziraphale was… right. But Crowley still couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. It was like there was a flaming, electrified, razor-wire-lined wall in his mind, and he simply couldn’t get past it.

“I heard you, you know...” he practically choked around the lump in his throat.

Aziraphale huffed a breath, obviously perturbed by the change of subject.

“Heard what?” he asked, short tempered.

“What you said, when... after I... passed out. Not... not all of it. Kind of... came to _in media res, _as it were. But I... I heard enough.”

Finally, he looked up, finding a look of such stricken vulnerability on the angel’s features that he immediately had to look away again.

_“Like Galileo loved the stars, like Shakespeare and his words. _I heard it, Aziraphale. And that’s why I know what happened, just now—because I felt it too. _Feel it. _ Every step. You think I would have been able to just _go home? _Patter about my flat without you, _sleep in a bed without you?! _I know I look carefree and aloof, but... it’s just because I’ve been doing it for 6000 years. Gotten right professional at it, I reckon; walking away when I desperately don’t want to. Keeping my distance when I desperately want to be...” he sighed, unable to speak those words just yet.

“Something’s changed, angel, something fundamental, between us. We can’t... we can’t be... _apart, _not anymore. You’re all I’ve got, and I’m all you’ve got. Well... that, and the damned witch to tell us that when we physically... _can’t_ tell each other. _That’s what happened. _You felt something... well, pardon the pun, but something I’ve been feeling for an _ungodly_ amount of time; loss. Doubt. Fear. At being separated.”

Thinking perhaps it might be safe to look back up, Crowley did. The sight nearly shattered him—flushed pink cheeks, a trembling lower lip, and tears... a well of tears in the angel’s eyes that glistened with the reflection of the fire and made it look like it was actually his eyes aflame.

“Crowley, I... I...” he stuttered, boldly reaching up and cupping his cheek.

Years and years of denial screamed at him to pull away, to shrug off the affection. Recent revelations warred with this, however, and made him want to lean into it; close his eyes and give up completely.

Neither won out, however, as he simply stared back at the angel, still as stone.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said finally, his thumb beginning to caress back and forth against Crowley’s cheek, and _damn his traitorous eyelids, _blinking languidly at the ministration.

“You’re right, you’re absolutely right—I have been a hypocrite. I’m not sure why I couldn’t ask you to stay, why I was willing to let you go, even though it... _it physically pained me. _But... will you at least admit that I, too, am right?”

Crowley shivered, stepping closer to the fire and moving himself regrettably from the angel’s hand. Instead of dropping it, though, he let it fall to Crowley’s chest, where it splayed out and rested.

Unable to speak past the lump, a series of false starts making him open and close his mouth, Crowley simply nodded.

“I’ve... I’ve an idea, actually...” he said, wondering suddenly if it could work—if he had enough power.

He extricated himself from the angel, and he heard Aziraphale stutter and follow close behind him as he headed for the stairs that led to the flat above the shop.

“What... what are you doing, dear boy?”

“Just... wait and see,” Crowley said, taking the stairs two at a time and halting before the ajar door to the flat (which exposed an unused, dust-and-book-covered bed, old Bohemian medallion area rug, and frosted four-panel window).

He pulled the door closed, waiting for the _click_ of the jam as he began stockpiling his own demonic power. Like revving an engine, he felt himself jittery with mounting power, so much that Aziraphale lowered himself down a few stairs, a hand over his heart.

“Crowley, what on earth...”

“Just... trust me, please?” Crowley asked, his ears starting to ring as the power almost overwhelmed him. He hadn’t performed such a massive miracle since... well, he couldn’t remember when.

“Well, since you asked so nicely...” Aziraphale was saying, but Crowley could barely hear him anymore. He felt like 50,000 volts of electricity had just been plugged directly into his very core, and it was just _bursting_ from every pore. He was vaguely aware that his eyes were glowing red from the feedback, their radiance creating an eerie glimmer on the wooden door.

With a low, unavoidable growl, he released the energy directly into the door handle.

The energy erupted into its channeled target, and the power drained from Crowley so quickly that his vision went black and his knees buckled. He was vaguely aware that Aziraphale had rocketed forward, awkwardly attempting to catch him and really just joining him on the landing.

“...stupid, stupid!” Aziraphale was saying, as Crowley’s hearing finally began to return through the ringing. “Bloody big miracle, whatever it was, and you’ve only _just_ gotten better! Why would you—”

“If it worked, it’ll be worth it,” Crowley interrupted, feeling himself jittery from the overexertion and incredibly weak. He could barely raise his arms to shoo the angel’s fussy ones away as they checked his pulse and temperature (unnecessarily).

“If _what worked, _Crowley?”

“Try the handle,” Crowley said, grogginess making his voice broken and garbled.

Aziraphale huffed again (he was doing quite a bit of that, this evening), and stood to open the door.

A gasp fell from his lips as the door creaked in to reveal, not a dusty and unused bookshop flat, but a posh Mayfair one.

“Good _Lord, _Crowley! Did you... did you really...”

“Create a portal to my flat from your bookshop? Why, yes. Yes I did. Now we’ll be nothing more than a flight of stairs away from each other,” he said, placing his spine against the wall and using it to push lethargically onto his wobbly legs.

Aziraphale’s look of pure gratitude was almost too much to bear, so Crowley distracted himself by brushing the dust from his trousers where he’d fallen. The angel’s expression quickly morphed, however, to one of slightly amused befuddlement.

“Not... not that I... _care all that much, _but... where did _my flat_ go?” he asked, studying the door frame for logistical failures and finding it almost a perfectly executed portal.

“S’about intent, angel,” Crowley said, leaning in and pulling the door closed again, only to twist the knob and push it open once more to reveal the old dusty flat. “Whichever you want, you’ll have.”

The angel positively _lit up, _both figuratively and literally—his skin glowing subtly with angelic delight.

“Permanently?!” he asked, shooing Crowley away from the door, slamming it gleefully, and then shoving it open to reveal Crowley’s flat.

“Permanently,” Crowley affirmed, a bit proudly. “S’probably why it nearly laid me out.”

“Oh... oh yes, quite. Why don’t you come back downstairs and sit. I recall you mentioned something about takeaway?”

After such a monumental miracle, Crowley found that he was actually _peckish. _

“Takeaway sounds phenomenal.”


	40. Teach Me, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley seeks out Penny to make a confession. She has a plan. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ maybe? 
> 
> For referenced sex/sexual scenarios.

At this point, Penny knew Crowley’s knock. She wasn’t sure _how_ she knew it—what about it screamed ‘Crowley’s here!’—but instinctively, she knew. What she didn’t know was how she would find him upon opening the door. 

In the year since they’d met, she’d learned a few things about the demon—he was quite serpentine in his patterns. He enjoyed new things, new people, new places. He was adventurous and challenge-seeking, mischievous and opportunistic. However, he was also riddled with age-old anxieties—habits he’d formed over the course of 6000 years that were so ingrained in him that they weren’t just habits, they were_ woven through him, _like a tapestry.

And one of those compulsions was habitation. He was only truly comfortable in a handful of places, and he returned to them habitually, _clung to them, _sought them out when he needed control. It took him years or even decades to adopt these places, and, much as she wished it was, her home was not one of them.

He came to her when he was drunk, or horny, or experiencing a type of loneliness that he didn’t wish to burden the angel with. It was a bit of a roller coaster ride, never knowing what she’d find when she opened that door, but not one she was averse to. She’d found that she enjoyed being what Crowley needed occasionally, in a casual sense at least. He was gentle, and kind, and horribly damaged. As a studying therapist, he was exactly the type of... _person? _... that she’d set out to help.

This time was different, however. He possessed nothing of his usual frantic nature, his hissing nervousness that was present for any of the reasons he ever showed up at her door.

He was calm, but in a kind of resigned, defeated way—leaning a shoulder against the porch pillar, his arms hanging slack at his sides. His eyes were hidden, as usual, by his shades, but Penny could see the rest of his expression, and it was also rather flat. He released a sigh, and it warbled on the way out like a very upset child.

Penny also knew better than to ask him what was wrong; that 6000 years of serving Hell had made him incapable and unwilling to share even the slightest hint of his emotional state. He hid it, just like he hid his eyes, behind a suave and standoffish demeanor, and struck anyone who tried to remove it.

So Penny offered him the one thing she could—the ability to tell her without _telling her. _

Stepping out onto the stoop, she held her hand out, palm up, offering him no judgement or expectation as she met his slit pupils through the glasses.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, raising a hand slowly and placing it in hers.

It didn’t hit her like a freight train this time, but rather washed over her, slowly enveloping her in it and beckoning her like a rising tide.

It was... _longing; _ a desperate, insatiable craving that was absolutely _wrecking him. _It was powerful, limitless, and _painful. _Like a starving man smelling fresh bread, like a drowning one in sight of the shore. He was saturated by it, overwhelmed by it, _shaking apart with it. _ And he felt helpless to do anything but bow to it.

Seeing Penny pull her hand back as if burned, Crowley bowed his head, releasing another dejected sigh. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, reserved... broken.

“I never want to hear another song that isn’t the sound of his voice; rambling, whining, talking up some... _stupid_ book. I never want to fall asleep again unless I get to wake up to his eyes, waiting for me.”

He let out a hard breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and letting his head fall to the side as well, with a gentle _thud_ against the pillar.

“But... then again that’s always been true. Well... maybe not always, but... a very long time. Much longer than it should have been, demonic nature considered. You felt it. A while ago, that day you touched me; that day, you knew... you looked me in the eye and told me I loved him. And I... I dunno. Of course I knew it too, didn’t try to deny it.

“But now it’s... I dunno”—he sighed—“it’s changed, it’s morphed... somehow. I didn’t think the soaked, tattered rag that is my soul could hold anything else. Saturation point, as it were. But it has. Suddenly there’s _more, _ and... I don’t know if I can take it, can hold it all...”

He pushed away from the pillar and half-turned to pace back and forth across the short distance of the porch.

“Suddenly I don’t just love him, I... I... _I want him. Need him. _Suddenly I can’t survive without at least the prospect of the next faint touch, the next absent caress.”

He paused, staring pointedly down at Penny’s shoes before he went on, shaky, quiet, and slightly terrified.

“I want... I want him to take me apart, Penelope. Brick by broken brick, feather by feather. I want him to put me back together; make of me what he will, what he needs me to be. I’ll be _nice, _ I’ll be _good for him. _

“I want him to set my flesh aflame with those... those _perfect fucking fingertips. _ And I don’t ever want to be put out. I want the heat of his skin to show me how pathetic the burning of Falling really is—put it to shame, _make me forget. _I want to learn what it is to breathe just so I can suffocate on his lips. I want him to teach me the meaning of _divine passion, _ until it’s all I know... until I can’t even remember my own bloody _name. _ I _want, _ Penny. _I want him.” _

He pressed out a bitter scoff between pursed lips, his breath appearing in the frosted air.

“Oh Crowley,” Penny cooed, ushering him inside. He dragged his feet, the picture of dejected and hopeless. She turned to face him, finding him looking more broken and unsure than she ever had—leaning against the nearest wall, an arm wrapped around his abdomen. She pursed her lips, taking a step toward him but not touching. “You’ve got it bad. Surely, you’ve known this? You said it yourself, that you’d thought about it?”

“Of course I have, but in the same way you admire a passing Maserati—in an obscure, unobtainable kind of way. It’s nothing more than a consideration. ‘Hmm, that would be amazing, and strange, and awfully fun to drive around, but it’ll never happen to me, so anyway, what do I want for dinner?’ I never really considered it because... because he’s an _angel, _ Penny. I _can’t... _ or... or _he_ can’t... or... _I dunno. _It’s not on the table for him, and... the last thing I want to do is... _tempt him.” _

“So... what changed then?” asked Penny softly, tilting her head with a bit of pity.

“I... I dunno. This bloody fucking trip to the South Downs, I suppose? I spent a lot of uninterrupted time with him, and we talked, _really talked _for the first time since I was freed from Hell. And I just... kept thinking back to... what you said. About love and sex coexisting. And I didn’t believe you... _then. _But then we spend these months together, in a damn cottage, of all things, like some... some...”—he waved a hand vaguely, as though hoping to pluck the right words from the air between them—“_married couple. _ And I..._ slept in a bed with him, with his arms around me. _ And suddenly it wasn’t unobtainable anymore, it wasn’t out of reach. It’s not a Maserati driving by, but a... fucking... _Ford Fiesta.” _

Penny giggled, but cut it short, as the sentiment behind the statement wasn’t nearly as funny.

“And if I’m no longer bound to Hell, what does that make me? Am I even a demon anymore? Some... _unattached third party? _Still have my powers, but...”—he sighed again, heavier still—“when I was a demon, it was unspoken, _forbidden. _But... is it anymore? Was it ever? Does it even _fucking matter?!” _

He deflated, even more than he already was, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, temporarily displacing his glasses.

“What a pathetic contradiction I am. Demon, purveyor of sin, original tempter of all humanity... _tempted.” _

Pity rose in Penny’s throat once more.

“Crowley... you don’t know that he can’t... or won’t, if you won’t _talk to him about it.” _

He shook his head furiously. “Not worth it, Penny. That’s lust, he’d Fall...” he sounded uncertain.

“But if it’s love, then _it can’t be lust, Crowley! _ You told me yourself, lust is hookups, and one-night stands, and self-indulgence for pleasure’s sake! Love and lust, they’re… two sides of the same coin. But Crowley… only one side is visible at a time.”

Crowley fidgeted, and suddenly it was so obvious. She tried to keep the accusation from her voice, but it bubbled up anyway.

“I know what this is,” she started, taking another step toward him, which he analyzed closely with quickly darting eyes. “You know that you love him, that’s a given. But somewhere in that black, broken heart of yours, you’ve still managed to convince yourself that he doesn’t love you back. Not in the way you want him to. And _that_ would make it lust.”

Crowley’s eyelids slid closed, as if in pain, so Penny continued quickly.

“But that’s not true at all, is it? He betrayed Heaven for you, he allowed me to damn my own soul to save you. If it was just... generic, all-things, angelic love, then he wouldn’t have allowed me to do that. He would have chosen my human soul over your demonic one. But he didn’t. So if that’s the reason you won’t at least _talk to him_ about this, then throw it away. It’s rubbish and you know it.”

Crowley’s hands suddenly came up to cover his face and muffle a groan.

“But Penny... what if... what if the answer is no? And then... then he knows, and our friendship will be forever tainted with this... this... gross, horrid, inappropriate longing of mine, and... and... he’ll never look at me the same again, knowing that... knowing how I think of him. And he’s flighty, like a goddamn bird. He could take off, leave me to go and deal with what he’s learned. And I just... _God, _ I couldn’t stand that, burdening him like that, couldn’t stand to watch him _run away from me. _ No...”

He dropped his hands, resolve etched on his features.

“No, Penny. I’d rather have him like this—at arm’s length and unaware, than... than not at all.”

“But Crowley... _what if the answer is yes? Or even maybe?” _ she asked. She’d lived her fair share of life in fear, and it had stopped her from really _living_—missing experiences she could have had, could have enjoyed. It was no way to live.

Crowley’s eyes went wide behind his shades, almost comically so.

“Oh God... _what if the answer is yes?!” _he looked up at her then, and she expected excitement.

What she saw was complete and utter _terror. _

“I could hurt him, shock him, show him how... _depraved I really am. Fuck, Penny, _ I can’t let him see me like that... I’m sick, and deranged, and _broken! _ How could I offer all that up on a silver platter and hope he didn’t _blanche at it?!” _

All things considered, Crowley wasn’t _that audacious_ in bed. Sure, they’d had their fair share of bondage, and rough sex, and even a few safe word uses, but... she wouldn’t have even called it _demonic_. She’d had human men with sicker fantasies.

“Crowley... don’t take this the wrong way, but... I think you’re overestimating yourself,” she tried, taking another step toward him.

He scoffed. “Oh, no, how could I _possibly_ take that the wrong way?!” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No, that’s... that’s not what I meant. It’s just... I think you’re overestimating your capacity to _shock him. _He was the _Angel of the Eastern Gate, _ after all. He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

Crowley growled. “Oh I give him _plenty of credit. _I know _exactly_ how strong he is. Trust me, it plays into most of my fantasies. But... he’s... he’s... _he’s Aziraphale, Penny! _He loves books, and tea, and cream cakes! He doesn’t curse, if he can help it, he likes warm things, and comfort, and _softness. _I... I’m... _none of those things! How, how could I possibly be... how could I possibly give him anything he wants, anything he needs?!” _

Crowley was beginning to sound a little frantic, his voice rising in shrillness as a hand waved forcefully about.

“Crowley... you’ve _been giving him what he needs_ for 6000 years. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stuck around!” she tried to reason, but Crowley clicked his teeth dismissively and pushed away from the wall to return to his pacing.

“That’s not... that’s not what I’m talking about, this is _different! _That’s conversation, and companionship, and the occasional rescue. This is completely unexplored territory, it’s... _God, Penny, what if I hurt him?!” _

Penny sighed, finally closing that gap, standing in his pacing path, and grasping his arms _hard_ to still him. He practically vibrated in her grasp, appearing about ready to fall to pieces right here on the foyer rug.

“Crowley...” she said, as soothingly quiet as she could manage. “Deep breath. I know you. You’ve never even hurt _me, _ even when I’ve _asked you to.” _

Instead of heeding her words, he immediately shot into an obviously pre-prepared counterargument.

“But that’s different, Penny! I can hold back, with you, I don’t lose control when it’s you. It’s... you’re...”

Penny sighed with bittersweet admiration, knowing what he was getting at, and knowing that he was avoiding saying it because he didn’t want to _hurt her. _

“You’re not in love with _me,” _she finished for him, and he cringed. “I already knew that, Crowley, it’s okay. You and I, we... we have fun. I’m an outlet for you, and you’re an outlet for me. Don’t think I don’t know that. I’m not going to break. But... I think I know what you’re trying to say. It’s... it would to be different for you because you’ve never _done that_ when there’s love involved. And you’re worried about what you’ll become when _it is.” _

Stricken dumb, Crowley simply nodded haltingly, his lower lip trembling minutely.

“Well...” she said, rubbing up and down his arms, slow, soothing. “Can I give you some advice?”

Still appearing unable to speak, he nodded again.

“What I do when I worry about something... is, erm... practice.”

Penny could see his eyes widen again beyond his sunglasses, so she hurried to go on.

“It doesn’t have to be me, Crowley. I know that that could get... weird... for you. But... I suggest you find someone, and see about being _gentle, slow. _Obviously, it won’t be a 100% accurate test, since you won’t _love them. _But I think it’s the best you can do. To prepare yourself, anyway.”

Crowley appeared to be warring with himself—probably on whether or not he _needed_ to be prepared, whether he would ever work up the courage to find himself in that situation with Aziraphale.

He paled suddenly, swallowing thickly again as his slit pupils finally stopped flitting about nervously to find hers. The frightened conviction there was staggering.

“What?” she asked quietly, afraid she might spook him with any amount of volume.

“I... I wouldn’t. Be able to pretend, I mean. Not with anyone else.”

For a moment, she thought he was talking about ‘anyone else but Aziraphale.’ Until one hand came up tentatively to wrap around her wrist.

The contact to her flesh activated her clairvoyance with a vengeance, and his emotions careened into her with locomotive force—apprehension, intrigue, fear, hope, _excitement. _

When he spoke, it was an unsteady whisper. “I wouldn’t be able to pretend with someone I don’t trust, someone who doesn’t know me, _know what I am. _But, I... you...”

He paused, and she could see his eyes slowly draw closed behind the glasses.

_“Teach me?” _


	41. Teach Me, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Explicit
> 
> Explicit sex, between M/F. If that's not your thing, skip it. 
> 
> There is some negotiation, and technically safe word use. (By technically, I mean yellow in the colour system). 
> 
> Also, a reminder He/Him pronouns for God, because this was written before the show.

“Alright... this... this guarantees to be outside of your comfort zone,” Penny whispered, standing in front of Crowley in her bedroom, still holding his arms. If felt more necessary now, though, as Crowley had begun trembling—like he would fall to his knees if she let go. 

“So I think we need some... a... system in place. For if you’re not... _okay_ with something. Which would you prefer; colour, or safe word?”

She continued rubbing his arms to anchor him, and didn’t dare move for his clothing. He was clearly nervous, on the verge of bolting, but had expressed numerous times that he wanted to try this—see if he could do it.

“C-colour,” he murmured, his head bowed to avoid her eyes. He still bore his glasses, and those, too, she wouldn’t remove until given deliberate permission.

“M’kay,” she agreed. “So yellow to slow down and talk, red to stop, no matter what.”

“I _do know_ the colour system,” he snapped, a bit of sarcasm biting his words.

“I know. Wanted to make sure. And I’ll use it too, but I don’t suspect I’ll need to. If rough Crowley hasn’t made me uncomfortable, I doubt gentle Crowley will.”

He cringed at the use of the word, and Penny momentarily regretted letting it slip. But if they were going to get through this, he had to become more relaxed about being called that.

“Alright, so...” she said, finally taking a step back and removing her hands from him. “Show me. Show me what you would do. If this were him.”

It looked like Crowley had been electrocuted—he jerked hard, then froze on the spot, staring at her with predator-like intensity.

_Alright, so... maybe some prodding. _

She stepped forward once more, splaying both hands out on his chest.

“Come on. Nothing to be scared of, _my dear.” _

“Yellow... _red. _ Fuck, I dunno!” he spat, rocketing away from her, slamming his back into the wall, and burying his face in his hands.

_Shit. Definitely the wrong prodding. _

“Okay. I’m sorry. Do you not want me to call you that?”

“I don’t... maybe? No?” Crowley mumbled, his voice cracking badly.

“I won’t. Just to be safe. I’m sorry. Do you want to continue, or do you want to stop?”

He sighed heavily into his shaking hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t...”

“Crowley, please take a deep breath. Whatever made you uncomfortable is gone now, and it won’t happen again. If you want to stop, we’ll stop,” Penny begged, her heart aching for him.

“I don’t. Want to stop, that is. But... but... _I can’t, I can’t...” _he gasped between hyperventilated breaths.

“Alright. How about this, then. I show you what _I would do. _Show you, teach you, but there’s no... _role playing. _He’s not here. Okay?”

Crowley’s manic breaths slowed, and he cautiously dragged his hands down and off of his face. It misplaced the glasses, but didn’t make them fall—instead situating mid-nose and giving her the barest view of his now-fully serpentine eyes. She was fairly certain, if she were to check, that she would find uneven splotches of scales peppering his spine and lower back.

“Y-yeah. Okay,” he mumbled, shoving away from the wall but standing somewhat awkwardly back from her.

“May I start again, or would you like a moment?” she asked, holding out a hand to him. His words could lie, but her clairvoyance couldn’t.

He took a deep breath in and held it, placing trembling fingers against her palm.

He was feeling raw and exposed, but still willing—more so by the second as she afforded him a little time to compose himself.

“Can I touch you?” she asked, knowing he would be very aware that she meant _more than just my hand. _

“Y-yeah,” he croaked, and she didn’t need to ask for his colour; his flesh still connected to hers told her he meant it.

Leaving her right hand beneath his, she raised her left to the temple of his sunglasses, silently questioning.

A flash of fear went through their connection, so she decided to ask this time.

“Colour?”

He was quiet, nothing but his panting breaths filling the air as she stilled against the cool metal pinched between her fingers.

“Green.” And, despite a bit of trepidation, he meant that, too.

She nodded, slowly pulling the barrier from his face and revealing him.

His eyes were so monstrously expressive—it was probably one of the reasons he kept them so obsessively hidden. Where minor dilation in human eyes might go unnoticed, his thin, slit pupils were easy to read. Even the slightest dilation, the smallest reaction was instantly obvious, as the blackness ate up the yellow.

Like now—the tall slits turning almost spherical as his vulnerable gaze met hers.

“It’s about knowing the other person, er... the other, erm... _entity,” _she said softly, placing the glasses on the nightstand and returning her free hand to his face to cup his jaw. As much as he tried to hide his reaction, it was easy to see how he _longed for that; _ titling into her touch and blinking slowly.

“_Really_ knowing them,” she went on, taking a half step to her right and maneuvering him toward the bed. He allowed it, walking backwards until the backs of his knees contacted the bed.

“Sex for pleasure’s sake is about getting what you want, what you need,” she said, dropping her hand from his cheek and raising the other so that they both came to rest on his chest.

“When it’s love... that’s not the point. _There is no point, really._.”

With that, she slid her hands up beneath his jacket, following the lean line of his shoulders to push it back and off. It fell with little pomp to the hardwood.

Checking his eyes, she migrated to the buttons on his shirt and began slowly working them undone.

“It’s more about... learning the other person’s body. Learning it like you’ve already learned their soul. Colour?”

His Adam’s Apple bobbed for a moment before he answered, but it was a tentative and quiet, “green.”

Slowly, cautiously, she removed articles of clothing, one by one, pausing between a few of his to guide his hands into removing hers—all the while checking with him, either through her clairvoyance or with a colour. She’d never seen him quite so nervous, so unsteady, so _breakable. _It was strange; she’d seen him horribly injured by Lucifer’s hand, seen him exorcised. But this—this tenderness, this semblance of_ love_ was what threatened to undo him.

Eventually she found herself nude, gently pushing him back to lie on her bed, in nothing but his pants. He was still trembling a bit, and through her touch she could glean why—he was still imagining, still painting the fantasy in his mind. He saw not Penny, crawling easily on top of him, straddling him, _touching him, _ but Aziraphale. He felt the angel all over him, smelled him, tasted him, and it was _terrifying. _

She decided to slow it down, as she could feel against her bum that he wasn’t even aroused—possibly too nervous to become so.

“Crowley,” she whispered, leaning in and mouthing a few sloppy kisses at his collar bone and neck, affording him a moment to _not look at her. _It appeared to help, as the taut lines of his muscles softened a little in relaxation.

“Please relax. We’ve done this plenty of times, just... a little differently. And you can always change your mind, you’re not going to frustrate me. I’ve got a lovely vibrator that can finish the job.”

He laughed, a little frantic at first, but it did help him to relax a bit more—his hands finally rising from where they’d been fisted in the duvet to rest on her bare thighs. They were clammy and warm, but at least he was making an effort to calm down.

With her hands spread out on his ribs, she was getting plenty of his emotional state—still scared, but still willing. But she wanted to hear his voice.

“Colour?” she asked against the warm skin of his neck, and she was glad to feel a shudder and the stirring of arousal against her bum.

“Still green, Penny,” he said, and it was stronger now.

“Good,” she said, switching to the other side of his neck and placing more gentle kisses there. She slid her hands up and down his ribs, feeling him squirm, but in a good way—he was now very hard.

“I’m going to do things for the sake of the scenario, say things I don’t mean,” she said, her voice low and dark. He tensed again, his hands twitching against her legs as if they wanted to ball up again.

“L-like what?” he asked, a little wary.

“Like the ‘L’ word, Crowley. Is that okay?” she asked, sitting up to look him in the eyes. It placed pressure against his erection, and he whimpered, taking a moment to focus before answering.

“Y... yessss, I think,” he said, the hiss accompanied by a very long, forked tongue flashing out of his lips. For his sake, Penny tried very hard not to remember what that lovely tongue was capable of.

“I can tell you’re not sure,” she said, emphasizing her point by beginning to caress back and forth under his lowest ribs with both thumbs. He shivered, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I’ll try to use my clairvoyance, but I also need you to tell me. Okay? If you don’t like it, or if you don’t even know how you feel about it, tell me. Alright?”

He nodded frantically, his hands finally balling up on her thighs.

“Anything off limits?” she asked, continuing her attempt to soothe him with slow, gentle fingertips across his stomach and ribs.

“I don’t—I don’t _think so?” _he answered, doubt flaring into Penny’s subconscious.

“That’s fine. Just alert me if you find something,” she said, trying to keep the pity from her voice; he was visibly terrified of _being loved, _ even if it was just a game.

“Can... _can I kiss you?” _she asked gingerly.

In all their time together, in all their carnal endeavors, they’d never kissed. It had never been explicitly stated, but he’d made it pretty clear that it wasn’t to be something they did—pulling away from her the first time she tried and flooding her with denial. And, no matter how he tried to hide it at the time, she could _feel_ his reasoning.

He reserved kisses for _love, _and that meant one person. Or rather... angel.

He thought about it for a long time. So long, in fact, that Penny thought he would back out altogether.

Finally, in a small, weary voice, he squeaked, “no.”

Penny’s heart ached for him. “That’s fine, Crowley. Thank you for telling me. I, er... I’m going to start, now. Colour?” she asked, grasping his fists and coaxing them to release as she guided them to rest on her lower back.

He swallowed hard, took a very deep breath, then, eyes still clamped shut, whispered “green.”

She found herself at a sudden loss—usually, in situations requiring a colour system or safe word, the objective was _pain, objectification, _or _loss of control. _Being excessively gentle, loving, and kind... wasn’t something she usually worried about. But with Crowley... those things _were_ painful. Or at the very least, he’d trained himself to avoid them, to an almost compulsive degree.

So she decided to focus on working him up to it; considered what someone _angelic_ would do.

“You’re so beautiful, Crowley,” she started, bracing her arms on either side of him and beginning to lave her lips and tongue across his ribs, sternum, and nipples. He whimpered, but she could tell it was a good one.

“And not just this body, although it is..._ irresistible.” _

She emphasized the point by biting incredibly lightly at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and he sucked in a breath between his teeth, his hips rocking up toward her slightly. What she felt there was incredibly reassuring.

“You’re good, Crowley,” she said, testing the waters and letting it soak in as she licked a wet stripe up his neck. She felt him shiver, but otherwise, he didn’t protest.

“_So good. _At tempting, sure, but...”

She switched sides again, following the same pattern down this side of his neck as she had on the other.

“You’re kind, and caring, and _so full of love.” _

She’d known she’d get a reaction from that, and react he did—letting out a pitiful whimper and gripping her backside hard. He pulled her down against him when he did, his face going slack as he found the pressure he’d been hoping for.

She hadn’t planned to give him any contact there for quite some time—building him up and edging him with kind words and gentle touches. But, as he moaned quietly, she figured a little was alright. It certainly wouldn’t be enough to get him anywhere.

So, continuing her praises into his sternum, she began to rock her hips against him, torturously slowly.

“In everything you do, you quietly _love. _You keep a garden, however traumatized it may be...”

He giggled, but it was stretched thin and needy.

“You take good care of your car, you avoid hurting people. You appreciate human progress—technology, wine, luxuries. And you were willing to be taken back to Hell for that angel of yours.”

She felt a shift in his demeanor, but couldn’t place it. Even using her clairvoyance, all she got was a muddled, disorienting mixture of feelings that made no sense.

“Crowley?”

_“Yellow,” _ he replied, voice shaking.

She immediately froze, gently angling her head up from where she’d been kissing a line down his stomach to look at him. He didn’t look at her—instead bringing his hands to his face to cover it.

“Hell...” he grumbled into his palms.

He didn’t need to say any more, but, while they were paused, she wanted to clarify.

“Can I... talk about Aziraphale? Was it just Hell?”

“Yeah, it’s... just Hell,” he said, and she leaned back to sit up, reaching for his arms but not pulling them away from his face until she felt the resistance release—until he _let her_ pull them away.

“This is part of it, Crowley,” she said, guiding his hands above his head to the wrought iron headboard. “Being exposed, _not hiding.” _

She placed his hands at two of the bars of the headboard, implying he wrap his fists around them.

“Don’t let go of them?” she asked, ensuring it was a question and not a command.

He nodded haltingly, pursing his lips as he complied.

“Colour?” she asked, pushing away but not crawling lower on the bed until he replied, “green.”

He yelped when she surprised him with a palm, pressing at his erection through his pants, but it quickly devolved to a heady moan. He rocked his hips immediately, pressing into her hand.

She placed the other on his hip, stilling him.

“Let me...” she said, trailing her hand to the elastic of his pants once he’d stopped moving. “Let me show you how good you are. Let me show you how much you deserve to be loved, to be _worshipped. _ Let me make you _feel it.” _

He appeared unable to respond, but in a good way. Through the contact of her hand at his hip, she could feel the rush of mixed excitement and apprehension, likely at her words. But he was getting better at accepting them.

When he finally nodded, she dragged his pants slowly down, but didn’t touch him when his very hard cock sprang free. She pulled them down with tantalizingly slow speed, laying gentle kisses onto his skin following them—first to his bony hip, then a few on a muscular thigh, the inside of his knee, slender calf, sharp ankle. By the time she pulled the pants all the way off and tossed them away, he was a blubbering mess, whining on every exhale and murmuring a few pleas.

Instead of giving him relief, she switched to the other leg, reversing the path she took down; ankle, calf, knee, thigh, hip.

He finally seemed to be relaxed— incredibly aroused and aching, but relaxed nonetheless.

“I want you to feel the way I see you,” she said, bracing her hands on the duvet on either side of his hips. “Sweet, perfect, good, kind, _cherished.” _

She affirmed each word with gentle nips to his hips and stomach, and the whines became honest-to-God _begging. _

_“Pleasepleaseplease, Penny, fuck, just... pleasssse...” _

She grinned, taking pity on him when she heard the hiss.

She took only the swollen head of his cock into her mouth, pulsating pressure with her lips and laving at him with her tongue.

He cried out, low and guttural, his legs contracting upward a bit. It didn’t go beyond her notice that his thighs were absolutely _quaking. _

She took him in slowly, keeping her lips pressed hard on him as she took him all the way to the back of her throat, trying very hard to stave off her gag reflex. She allowed her tongue to explore the underside a bit before beginning to move, and he _keened. _

Missing the opportunity to shower him with praise, she gave him only a few tantalizing strokes before pulling off. He groaned, his hips instinctively following her lips as his now-tortured and aching cock slapped back to his stomach.

“So full of love,” she started up again, slowly crawling up his body like a wildcat and leaving random nibbles in her wake. She took a moment to ensure he was still holding on to the headboard, and _oh was he; _ his knuckles bright white and his hands shaking so badly the iron was creaking.

“And so loved,” she went on, rearranging to straddle him once more; bracing her hands on either side of his head and leaning in over him, her hair creating a kind of tunnel between them as it fell.

She considered saying it now—she’d wanted to save it for a more _opportune_ moment, but... given that he might go _red_ upon hearing it... better to toe the line sooner rather than later.

Raising one hand to cup his cheek tenderly, she whispered, softly, reverently,

“I love you.”

It was as if he’d been shot; his eyes widened and then suddenly slammed closed, and he bit his lip extremely hard. His entire body began shaking, and his breaths quickened to near-hyperventilating.

Worry raged through her, so she focused on her clairvoyance—on her touch against his cheek.

He was indeed beginning to panic.

“Crowley...”

_“Yellow, yellow... can... can I please remove my hands?!” _

“Yes, Crowley, of course,” she said, leaning back and sitting up on his hips.

His hands immediately flew to his face, which he buried in them, panting heavily into his palms.

“Crowley, talk to me please. Do you need to stop? Should I not say that?” she asked quietly, giving him a very gentle caress on his arm, just to monitor the emotions he wasn’t sharing.

It actually_ felt_ like he’d been shot—shock and a bit of pain, denial and fear. He couldn’t physically deal with hearing those words, couldn’t process them when they were _aimed at him. _ He’d been taught never to accept those words, never to believe them.

“N-no. Neither. You c-can sssay it, I just... jusssst needed...” he stuttered, hissing around trembling lips.

_To hide. He needed to hide from them. _

Sighing sympathetically, she rubbed his arm again, and slowly, slowly... he calmed and removed his hands.

This time, she didn’t have to prod him—he simply looked at her and stated, somewhat guarded, “green.”

She grinned, happy to see him confident enough to at least take a semblance of control.

“Good,” she replied, pointing back above him. “Hands back on the headboard, if you please.”

He gave her a hooded look, but it read as more mischievous than fearful, so she simply followed his wrists, helping his fingers along and curling them around the iron bars. When she removed them, she dragged her fingernails terribly lightly down the pulse point at his wrist, over the underside of his forearms, the ticklish inner elbow. He shuddered again, harder this time, and threw his head back into the pillow.

Encouraged by this, she continued to drag them over his shoulders, across his collar bones, down his sternum, and finally over his nipples.

His mouth dropped open to release a fairly undignified wail, and his hips bucked up against her.

Grinning, she lingered on his nipples, teasing him lightly and watching him dissolve into a squirming puddle of bliss, until finally maneuvering herself into position.

He was so mindless with pleasure that he hadn’t even noticed, so he inhaled hard and arched off the bed when she took him in hand and pressed him inside of her.

She moved slowly, rhythmically, rocking her hips on him and focusing on _his pleasure. _

That’s what this was for. It was supposed to be him showing her how he would go about _making love_ rather than just fucking. But that hadn’t gone well, so the objective now was just to show him what it _looked like, _ what it _felt like. _ After all... he’d never had _loving sex. _

And she supposed, as she continued, never gaining speed and making sure to build him up extremely slowly, that it wasn’t a complete lie.

She did love him. She wasn’t _in love_ with him, knew that it wasn’t wise to allow herself that; but he was like any friend she knew would be lifelong—of course she loved them, of course she cherished them. She and Crowley just... occasionally had mind-blowing sex.

And trusted each other, apparently, enough to experiment with new and terrifying things.

He didn’t seem terrified, not now that he was in more familiar territory. He continued gripping the iron headboard, but he was actively seeking out her eyes now, watching hungrily as she moved on top of him.

But sex wasn’t the endgame here, _love was. _

“You deserve to be loved,” she whispered, her voice husky as she found her own end drawing nearer.

He cringed, closing his eyes and grinding his teeth.

“Say it,” she said, speeding up slightly and making him groan.

_“Penny...” _he begged, his grip tightening on the headboard.

“Say it,” she said again, moving even faster now.

_“Penny, please...” _he whimpered, beginning to move with her. She slammed her hands down on his hips to restrain him as best she could, and he practically growled at her.

_“Say it! _ You deserve to be loved, you deserve to be _worshipped...” _ she prodded, moving even faster. His abdominals were beginning tense and release, which tipped her off that he was close.

_“Penny, stop it,” _he choked, his whole body tensing.

She tamped down her pity, as she quickly responded, “you know what to do if you really want me to stop. _Say it!” _

With that, she stilled entirely, keeping him buried deep inside her and feeling her walls barely spasming on him in the early throes of orgasm, driving him mad.

_“Shit... fuck...” _he moaned, his whole body shaking with it. His face was twisted as if in pain, but he was _enjoying it, _ she could tell easily through her clairvoyance.

_Bloody masochist_.

She leaned forward, flicking her fingers over his nipples again as she whispered,

“Say it, Crowley.”

He arched of the bed with an unhinged moan, and it finally devolved into words.

“I deserve it, I do. I deserve to be loved.”

She grinned, leaning back upright and speeding up again.

“Again,” she demanded, continuing to tease a nipple with one hand and finding her own clit with the other.

He hesitated, but said it again.

“I deserve to be loved.”

She sped up exponentially in reward, and felt his entire body going taut like a caught fishing line. She focused on herself for a moment, hoping to get there before him and finding that she was incredibly close.  
“One... more...” she panted, feeling her thighs burning from the exertion and a powerful heat building inside her.

_“Penny...” _he pleaded, his hips thrusting frantically to meet her, and this time she didn’t stop him.

Perhaps saying it wasn’t what he needed. Perhaps hearing it was.

She waited only a split second more, finally tipping over the edge and crying out as her orgasm ripped through her.

“I love you... I love you... you deserve it... I love you...” she cried, baring against waves and waves of sheer ecstasy.

Normally hearing someone else’s name in bed was a massive turn-off, a problem. But the point here was to give Crowley an outlet for his _love_ for Aziraphale. So she couldn’t be happier when he began fairly chanting, begging, _pleading... _

_“Aziraphale, angel, angel—ah!—angel!” _

Finally his voice failed him, and his mouth simply hung open in a silent scream of ecstasy, his thighs rising up behind her as his whole body went rigid, shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure as he came explosively.

Her own thighs quivering from the exertion and pleasure, she stayed for a moment, keeping him fully seated inside as they both caught their breath.

He whined when she finally leaned forward, his cock slipping free as she tapped his arm to let him know he could let go. He did, his hands trembling quite badly as she rolled to the side to lay next to him. Of course, now freed from the scenario, he placed them immediately over his face and groaned.

“You alright?” Penny asked carefully, caressing lightly up and down his sternum.

Keeping his face hidden, he nodded and mumbled, “mmhmm.”

“Do you need anything? Want anything? A shower, a cigarette?” she asked.

He inhaled hard, clearly thinking, then finally dropped his hands from his face.

“Er... cigarette... maybe?” he squeaked, still refusing to look at her and instead directing his critical gaze straight up at the ceiling.

“‘Course,” she replied, leaning off the bed and retrieving her box of Marlboros and lighter from her discarded purse. She pulled out one for each of them, keeping her own pinched in her mouth as she placed his in his waiting lips and lit it.

He dragged on it thankfully while she lit her own, relaxing more as that first hit relaxed him.

She tossed the lighter away and returned her hand to his sternum, gleaning from the contact a bit of embarrassment.

“You know... you did exactly as I hoped you would,” she prodded, following the dip of his sternum up to lightly caress his neck. Thankfully, despite the continued bashfulness flooding through her connection, she also received a reassuring amount of comfort and relaxation. It was something she truly appreciated about her ability—she could tell what he liked the moment she did it.

She continued, curling her fingers against his neck and feeling the vibration in her fingernails when he spoke.

“How so?”

“You’re embarrassed about it, but... you called out for him. It doesn’t bother me; that’s what I was hoping would happen. It means you were... able to let go, able to embrace the scenario.”

More embarrassment flared through the connection, so she leaned forward, resting her head against his shoulder and continuing her movements against his neck as she whispered,

“It’s okay. _You’re okay. _It was just... really different for you.”

He made an assenting hum, dragging on his cigarette. She could feel, however, that he was hoping to stop talking about it, so she did.

“Probably should have, er... asked this _well before now, _ but I can’t... I mean... it’s not possible for you to... you know...”

Crowley scoffed, obviously forgetting he had a cigarette in his mouth, sucking in a mouthful of smoke and choking on it. Penny giggled, but waited for him to respond.

“Impregnate you? Knock you up? _Create a demon spawn?” _ he asked with little finesse. “Does creating _life_ really sound like something _God_—he who despised me, silenced me, _disposed of me_—would allow? No. No I cannot. Incompatible, you could say. Now there are certain Incubi and Succubi that are capable, but those bodies are carefully curated by Hell’s corporations department, and with _very_ specific intentions. I am not one of them.”

Penny nodded, leaning back to ash her cigarette in the tray on her bedside table and returning quickly to his side. He was very much enjoying the slow, steady pass of a single fingertip up and down his chest, and she certainly wasn’t going to deny him.

“So... for your first... _loving experience... _ or what passes for it, anyway; how was it? Think you could handle... you know... being the instigator?” She asked, watching as he flicked his cigarette over the duvet, the ash vanishing in midair before ever touching the fabric.

“Not sure,” he replied honestly, his eyes appearing haunted. She concentrated on her clairvoyance, finding more crippling worry and doubt.

“You know how I get. Frenzied, and manic, and... out of control. Not with... sex. At this point, I’m controlled to the point of mundanity. It’s... everything else... when I’m out of my comfort zone. Obviously. And he is; he’s everything that’s out of my comfort zone, and everything I want to feel for _the rest of bloody time. _So... how do I know if I can handle it? How do I know, when the only guarantee I have is that I _won’t know?!” _

Penny sighed, pressing harder with her hand against his heart and feeling it thump encouragingly.

“Well... none of this will have been worth it, will have even _had a point... _ if you won’t_ talk to him about it.” _

Altogether, Crowley shut down—his body going tense, his eyes widening, his breaths coming to a grinding halt.

“I can’t,” he snapped rigidly, suddenly pulling his cigarette from his lips and tossing it out of existence.

“Crowley, not even if y—”

_“I said I can’t, Penny, how many times do I have to say this?!” _he growled, removing her hand none-too-gently from his chest and placing it on the duvet. “If it’s something he wants, he can ask me. I won’t reveal this, won’t show him how sick I really am, not if there’s even the _slightest_ chance he’ll say no.”

“But... if you don’t even _breach the subject, _how can he know to _ask you?!” _

“Because _I’d rather have him at arm’s length than not at all, Penny!” _he yelled, rocketing to his feet, his clothing returned before he was even fully upright.

“Crowley, don’t... don’t leave like this...” she asked, regretting every word. He never stayed the night, but... he didn’t usually storm out and leave her alone and miserable in bed either.

“What do you want from me, Penny?! I think we’ve just proven that I can’t handle... any of this. I couldn’t even let you say...”

He paused, fuming and balling his fists against his thighs.

“I know, Crowley. I know you’re scared, and I know you can’t admit to that. I’m sorry. Please. Don’t leave like this...”

She was shocked to find tears springing to her eyes at the thought of him storming out, upset, afraid, and alone, after all the progress they’d just made. She’d wanted to help him, not hurt him.

He stilled, and she knew he could see the tears in her eyes, because he softened.

“Don’t... don’t cry,” he said weakly, his entire demeanor deflating as he leaned forward, propping a knee on the bed as he brushed her hair back from her face. “I’m not... not mad at you. Not really. I just... I’m not ready for a lot of what freedom from Hell entails. And no amount of telling me to change will make me. I just need time. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

She nodded, willing herself into composure and offering him a bitter but encouraging smile. To her complete and utter shock, he leaned in, placing a casual, chaste kiss to her forehead.

It was extremely bizarre—being comforted by _a demon_ who felt bad about upsetting her. If she’d been told as a young girl that she would witness such softness, such compassion for humanity in _a bloody demon... _ she would have questioned everything she’d ever been taught... well, earlier than she eventually had.

“I’m gunna go, but... I’m not mad. It’s fine, we’re fine. I just lose it sometimes when people tell me the truth. I’m working on it,” he said flippantly, grinning and winking conspiratorially at her.

She giggled, nodding. “Have a good night, Crowley.”

“You too, Penny. And... er... _thanks.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was anxious to post this one. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, trying to suggest that Crowley loves her, or that she loves him (romantically). We all know there's only one person (entity?) for Crowley. This is just his way of figuring his own shit out without jumping immediately into the fryer.


	42. Christmas in SoHo, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas in SoHo, and Penny has a few gifts for her angel and demon companions. 
> 
> (Yes, this was supposed to be posted before the Holidays, but I just got too busy.)  
Also... we've finally reached the chapters that I wrote post-show. Obviously I can't change everything to fit in with it, as the entire plot of this story relies on the body-swap not happening, but I'm gunna make a few minor adjustments. Namely, God's pronouns. God will be She from now on!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> For unbearable fluff.

“You need some help with that, miss?”

“Oh, no, no,” Penny said, trying to stifle the grunt she made as she finagled the awkward, oblong box into her lap as she shimmied out of the cab. “It’s awkward, but not heavy. Thank you though.”

The cabbie nodded, placing the cash she had handed him into a lockbox, watching with sympathy as she hurled herself and the box out into the blizzard.

“You sure this is where you wanna go?” the cabbie asked, motioning out his windscreen. “That chap’s never open.”

Penny grinned, turning to see the ever-present ‘Closed’ sign staring her accusingly in the face.

She nodded, rearranging the box under her arm as it collided with her purse where it hung precariously off her shoulder, and propping it on a hip.

“He’ll be open for me,” she said, pivoting and shoving the cab door closed with her butt.

The cabbie laughed. “Happy Holidays, miss!” he called out the open window.

“Happy Holidays, sir!” she called back, hobbling to the door. She plopped the box down with a huff, rapping her knuckles against the old wood. She didn’t wait for his usual ‘we’re closed,’ instead opting to shout,

“It’s me!” 

There was some shuffling, followed by the telltale _click _of the lock turning.

Penny’s heart did backflips as the angel opened the door—the warm yellow light from inside cascaded around him, forming a well and true halo about him. He was dressed in his usual attire, but he appeared to have relaxed it a bit; his overcoat and bow tie removed, and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned a modest single button.

He wore an expression of flustered disbelief, however, which reminded her of who she was standing before.

“I brought you something!” she exclaimed, slapping a hand on the top of the four-foot box excitedly.

“I see that,” he grumbled, his tone and suspicious eye saying ‘it’s not book shaped, ergo I don’t want it.’

Penny couldn’t help the pang of adoration for the fussy angel.

“Come on Aziraphale, it’s a gift! I promise, you’ll like it!”

He still looked doubtful, but his eyes flitted to the vicious winds and blinding snow currently whipping Penny’s scarf and coat hood about like scrambled eggs in a beater.

“Well, come on then,” he conceded, stepping back and motioning her in.

Grasping the box gleefully, she hurried inside, feeling the bookshop’s warmth hit her like a brick wall. She groaned in comfort, setting the box on the foyer rug and hurrying to yank her gloves and scarf off. Aziraphale dutifully took them, brushing gathered snow from her shoulders and pulling her coat off.

A flash of something out of place caught her eye, and she found, basking casually against the end of a bookshelf with a highball in hand and eyeing her like as slightly inebriated predator would, a very familiar demon.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re here!” she exclaimed, clapping a few times as her excitement mounted. “Even better!”

If anything, Crowley managed to look even more nonchalant at her reaction, saying nothing and raising his glass to his lips.

“Well, what is it?” Aziraphale asked shortly, gesturing to the box as he returned from the coat rack.

“It’s a Christmas tree!!!” she cried, unable to wait for him to open it.

Several things happened at once—Penny discovered what distressed joy looks like, and a demon snorted a drink out of his nose.

“Oh...oh, that’s... Penny, you didn’t have to...” Aziraphale blundered, eyeing the box with what looked like obligated appreciation.

“Of course I did!” she said, exasperated. “You are _an angel... without a Christmas tree! _ Seriously, that’s gotta be blasphemy of some kind!”

“Well, actually, the Romans really brought about what we currently refer to as Christmas, with Saturnalia, which was a celebration in the spirit of merrymaking and revelry, held in the month of December. Jesus himself wasn’t actually born until September. The time of year that the celebration was held slid through time, aligning more closely with other western celebrations of gift giving and gathering. Although you can blame precisely _one_ demon for the display of capitalist pomposity, greed, and _reciprocity_ that ‘Christmas’ has turned into...” Aziraphale lectured.

Penny looked to Crowley, who merely gave a lopsided shrug, and took another sip of his drink.

“And furthermore,” Aziraphale went on, his voice growing in vivacity and slight haughtiness, “the use of a ‘Christmas tree’ didn’t come about until the 16th century, in Germany. So, really, when you think about it...”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Crowley interrupted, waving a drunken hand and shoving from his leaning spot to saunter forward and join them. “We get it. ‘Christmas’ itself is a modern construct and has no bearing on your loyalty or holiness in general, _blah blah blah...” _ he barked, coming to stand next to a now grumpy-at-having-been-interrupted angel. He whipped his head to look at Penny critically.

“He loves Christmas. The gathering, and the pretty lights, and the chestnuts, and the _good will towards men...” _

At this point Crowley feigned a gag, and Aziraphale slapped him on the arm with all the gusto of a fabric flag flopping in a weak breeze.

Crowley continued, undeterred. “He just doesn’t have one because it draws customers in.”

“Oh! Well, that is... that’s just...absolutely... utterly...” Aziraphale spluttered, looking offended, but somewhere under the layers, he appeared to already know it was true.

“Aziraphale!” Penny fake-scolded, hauling the box back into her arms and stomping ceremoniously into the back room. “We’ll put it in the back room, where no one but you can see it!”

She heard some grumbling, but continued anyway.

_“Come on, Aziraphale! _ I’ll even help you, it’ll be fun! Where’s your holiday spirit?!” she called, dropping the box on the floor before an already roaring fire and whipping her Swiss Army knife out to slice it open.

The fake pine boughs sprung forth, popping the box open and reaching their branches out like arms desperate to be held.

Penny turned, finding Aziraphale entering the back room, his face brightening as he looked down on the erupting pine needles. Crowley was close on his heels, fanning off to the side and watching to see what the angel would do next. He was clearly softening, but with a twist of his hands, he gave one last ditch effort.

“Aren’t those.... a... a fire hazard?”

At that, the ghost of something washed over Crowley’s face, and he paled suddenly. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed whatever it was, trying to appear nonchalant as he slid past Aziraphale to plop back onto the couch and polish off the rest of his drink. Penny thought she recalled a drunken, half-muttered lament of a burned bookshop, but had written it off as rambling, because... well, because the shop was still here, wasn’t it?

“Nope!” she said with glee, pulling a Tesco bag of ornaments and string lights from her purse. “These are fire retardant! So? You gonna help me or what? It’s getting put up, with or without you.”

One small battle with a box later, Penny found herself beside a now very chipper angel, both of them being handed a mug of cocoa by a quiet but clearly content demon. Said demon wasn’t helping, merely sprawling on the couch and watching, sipping his own drink, which, strangely, appeared to be... egg nog? Oddly festive, for him, but Penny opted not to comment.

“Oh, well... _thank you, my dearest,” _Aziraphale simply cooed, taking his mug and wrapping both hands possessively around it, fixing Crowley with a look of such adoration, Penny feared getting burned by its overflow. ‘Dearest’ also didn’t go unnoticed, but yet again, Penny simply watched the two of them.

“Very sweet of you,” Aziraphale purred, raising his cocoa to his lips, testing it, and fluttering his lashes as he let out a moan of pleasure.

Crowley colored more than Penny had ever seen, his cheeks going nearly lobster red.

“Ngk,” he said, turning to plop back onto the couch. “Not sweet. I’m... fomenting... gluttony. You’re easy.”

“Yes, you’re very bad,” Penny said, testing her cocoa at the same time as Aziraphale and finding it almost perfect—wonderfully chocolatey, not too sweet, and delectably hot.

“Is that..._ peppermint_ I taste?!” Aziraphale hummed, wiping an adorable bit of whipped cream from his upper lip.

Crowley rearranged uncomfortably, sipping on his amber drink. “Schnappssss, yeah.”

The hiss told Penny one of two things was happening; either Crowley was feeling the booze, or he was embarrassed. Probably a mixture of both.

“Oh, that is _delightful, _Crowley, _thank you,” _Aziraphale said with such saturated and genuine appreciation, it sounded like a love confession.

For his part, Crowley did a moderately admirable job of hiding the way he colored at the praise, raising his glass again and keeping it at his lips; barely drinking but rather using it as a barrier to hide his face.

“Here, you can fluff these up,” she said, taking pity on him and fighting the swelling demon adoration in her chest by chucking a fake branch at said demon. He grunted as it landed in his lap, and it quickly devolved into an unhappy grumble.

“Your eggnog will still be there if you _help a little!” _she chided him.

“Oh honey, this stopped being eggnog about an hour ago,” Crowley said with a Cheshire grin, setting down his glass of, apparently, straight rum on the couch side table and pulling out the wiry branches on the fake pine bough.

A comfortable and companionable silence fell, as the three of them formed an assembly line of sorts—Crowley fluffing up branches, and Aziraphale and Penny placing them. At some point, Aziraphale lazily (or possibly drunkenly) waved a hand at his gramophone, which began playing a bit of symphonic Christmas tunes. Crowley didn’t even complain; just grinned in resigned but fond annoyance.

“Sweetheart, tell me something...” Aziraphale said mutely as he placed a branch and critically fluffed it up more.

“Hm?” Penny asked as Crowley handed her another branch.

“Why on Earth are you spending the weekend before Christmas with a stuffy old angel and...”

Crowley paused, raising an eyebrow suspiciously and positively _daring_ whatever Aziraphale might call him.

“Rel...uctantly... festive... demon...” Aziraphale tried slowly, watching as Crowley shrugged, accepting it, if only for the ‘reluctantly’ bit. “Instead of with family?”

“Well, first of all, I am spending it with family... of sorts,” she said, giving the angel her widest of grins.

The two reactions couldn’t have been more diametrically opposed—Aziraphale rested a hand on his heart, letting out a painfully genuine “awww” that just screamed ‘you think of me as family?!’

Crowley, however, pulled a face, made a series of incomprehensible noises, and then downed the rest of his rum.

Penny giggled at them.

“Secondly... my family _is in town,” _she said, hearing her own tone go stale. “Staying with me actually. My sister and her fiancé. He doesn’t support the witchcraft, and she’s always been easily manipulated by people she wants to be liked by. Allows him to demean it and call both of us names. Horrid relationship. Even more horrid to be around. And I’ve told her I dislike him, that he doesn’t respect her, and she needs to address all this with him before the bloody wedding... but she just tells me I need to be more supportive. So... yes. I’d much rather spend this time with a stuffy old angel and reluctantly festive demon.”

Aziraphale gave her a sympathetic glance, but Crowley (in typical Crowley fashion) simply glared at the bottom of his now empty glass until it thought better of being rum-less, and burped “more festive by the minute. I could take care of the hubby for you. One interaction with a demon, and he’ll come crawling to his nearest witches for help.”

“And what are you going to do, drink the lad under the table?” Aziraphale said flatly, and both Penny and Crowley gaped at him.

“M’scary when I need to be!” Crowley barked, slamming his glass down and rocketing unsteadily to his feet. He pointed an accusatory finger at the several Aziraphale’s he was clearly seeing.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, still refusing to face the demon and instead adopting a look of unadulterated smugness as he continued fluffing the tree.

“Oh yes, dear. Very spooky. I wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley. You might wine and dine me, and call it ‘gluttony’.”

Penny whistled at the impressive burn, mouthing ‘how much Schnapps did you put in that?’ as she motioned to the angel’s cocoa where it rested on a bookshelf nearby.

Crowley scowled, and before Penny knew what was happening, he had swooped forward, wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist, and lifted him up.

Aziraphale _squealed, _a hint of laughter in it as he halfheartedly slapped Crowley’s arms and declared, “what on _Earth_ are you doing? Put me down this instant!”

“I’m showing you where you can shove it. Angels go on top of Christmas trees anyway, don’t they?” Crowley said, trying to be cold but breaking at the end with chuckle.

With a resounding _whoomph, _ Aziraphale’s pearly wings burst into existence, separating him from Crowley and fairly tossing the demon onto the floor with a now uncontrollable fit of giggles.

“Alright! Alright! Truce!” Penny yelled, crossing the room and hauling Crowley to his feet as she watched Aziraphale huffily straighten his jumper and hide his wings once more. Through the momentary contact of her hand on Crowley’s, Penny felt an almost painful fondness ebbing through Crowley’s aura that throbbed like a paper cut. She winced, knowing exactly where it was aimed.

“Here,” she said, jabbing a fist into her purse and pulling out two small, ornately (but slightly drunkenly) wrapped gifts boxes. “These are for you two.”

She shoved them into their chests, watching with satisfaction as the generous act (that likely neither of them had partaken of) brought them to a screeching halt.

“A... gift... for me?”

She’d thought this was going to be a lovely little holiday gesture, but the way Aziraphale said that broke her heart. Heaven may have claimed to have been in the right, been the righteous and the charitable... but clearly that only extended insofar as humans were concerned. The angel acted as though he didn’t find himself worthy of such a gift, of such thoughtfulness.

Crowley, for his part, simply stared down at the box as if she’d handed him a fire urchin straight from the sea.

“Of course. You two are... well, you’re...”

Suddenly she felt her own throat closing up. A year ago, she’d been going through the motions, making single-serving friends in her Uni classes, then moving on and making more single-serving friends. No one stuck, no one understood her strangeness, her witchcraft. Until, in the weirdest and most terrifying way possible, she’d befriended and angel and a demon. And they were sticking around, it seemed.

“Oh, bloody Hell, just open them, will you?!” she asked, reaching for her own cocoa and downing a mouthful.

Crowley of course broke first, shrugging and tearing off the red and silver paper with childlike abandon. Upon seeing this, Aziraphale gently popped the tape from the ends, folding the paper back carefully and pulling the box out.

Crowley pulled his out first—a small, delicate caricature of an angel, complete with radiant blond locks and brilliant blue eyes, hung from a spiraled gold ribbon.

Aziraphale gasped, which drew Penny’s attention to him.

He had pulled his own ornament out, his eyes brimming with tears as he beheld it—a long, looping black snake with an intricate red underbelly and positively bewitching golden eyes. It hung from a red velvet ribbon, and atop its head resided a comical little Santa hat.

When neither of them spoke, Penny felt the urge to fill the silence.

“My psych class was going over the benefits of crafting with our patients—giving people something to do with their hands so that their minds can focus on the task rather than... their trauma. We, er... we made Christmas ornaments out of clay and painted them ourselves. I understand the sentiment behind it, but if you ask me, the professor was just looking for an excuse to make... Christmas... ornaments... are you two alright?”

Both of them looked like they’d been stricken by a bus—eyes wide and mouths hanging open.

Aziraphale finally cleared his throat, pulling his snake ornament from the box more fully and holding it against his heart.

“You... you _made these?! For... for us?!” _he choked, and the tears welling were obvious now. It made Penny’s chest constrict painfully.

“Of... of course I did. If you were going to be putting up a Christmas tree, you should have ornaments of something that you cherish...”

At that, Crowley made a strangled noise, clearing his throat and clutching his ornament in a fist that had begun to shake. He stared down at it with eyes so wide and intense that both Penny and Aziraphale took a worried step toward him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice quiet and prodding.

Crowley sniffed, his head bolting up to stare at the two of them, and his expression was one of... dawning terror.

“We’ve, er... we’ve never had a Christmas. A proper one, I mean... you and me,” he said, addressing Aziraphale and obviously unconsciously pulling the ornament against his chest. “Never been able to. Too dangerous, giving... er, giving gifts. A paper trail, as it were, to our inappropriate... er... arrangement. But...” he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing harshly, “we... we could. Now. If we wanted. My side wants nothing to do with me, and... and yours already knows. So... who cares?”

He was beginning to look a little manic, and Aziraphale obviously picked up on that too.

“Is that... is that something you’d be interested in, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked cautiously, obviously unsure how to address the demon’s now fractured energy.

Crowley blinked a few times, looking first at Penny, then down at his angel ornament. He ran a thumb over it gently, caressing it over the little thing’s swishy hair.

When he looked back up at Aziraphale, his voice was gone, but he mouthed pitifully “yeah.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, still cautious as he approached Crowley and reached for the ornament. For a split second, Crowley clutched it tighter, not allowing he angel to take it.

He then appeared to realize how badly he’d spiraled, and he cleared his throat, surrendering the ornament and taking a retreating step back and away from the angel, running a hand through his auburn locks with forced nonchalance.

“I, er... think I’ve had a bit too much. Right knackered. Gonna... gonna, erm... turn in, angel,” he said, grabbing his sunglasses from the end table and jamming them onto his face. Penny could tell Aziraphale was disappointed by this in the way his shoulders dropped dejectedly—likely wishing to gauge Crowley’s state after his little breakdown, but now unable to.

He then did something that made Penny hold her breath; he grinned softly, nodding and raising a hand to grasp the back of Crowley’s neck, gently and reverently pinching with his thumb and fingers.

“Alright, love,” he said, leaving his hand where it rested when Crowley made no move to throw it off. In fact, his whole body seemed to deflate—relaxing into the extremely new (it seemed, anyway, to Penny) physical affection. Crowley had said something had changed between them up there at the South Downs, but... this was a drastic difference. A month ago, Crowley would have shrugged off the angel’s touch and made some kind of derisive comment. Now... now he was simply _melting in it. _

“Do you need me to come with?” Aziraphale asked, and Penny’s heart leaped. What on _Earth_ did he mean by that?!

Still appearing speechless, Crowley simply shook his head ‘no,’ raising his own hand and clasping it onto Aziraphale’s forearm and squeezing once.

The angel nodded in affirmation, finally pulling his hand away and Crowley _actually followed its retreat, _ his head tilting as if to chase that touch for as long as possible, and Penny thought she might scream. There was so much happening here, so much unspoken tenderness, so much radiating _love_ that she suddenly felt like an intruder to the moment.

She averted her eyes, staring down at her cocoa and bashfully moving a bit of hair behind her ear as Crowley suddenly made for the stairs.

“Good night, my dear,” Aziraphale called, a note of something (sadness?) in his tone.

Crowley merely grunted as he rounded the banister, a slender hand waving nonchalantly over it back at them.


	43. Christmas in SoHo, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny spills the beans, but Aziraphale was already one step ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+
> 
> For mentioned/alluded-to sex.

Aziraphale watched Crowley go with almost desperate devotion, feeling that ache and pull in his chest that called him to follow—to crawl into bed with him, hold him, stay close to him as he slept. Protect him. Watch over him. _Guard him. _

He hadn’t realized his own vice-like grip on an angel ornament in one hand and snake in the other, until Penny’s gentle hand laid atop his. Startled out of his momentary reverie, he looked at her, finding a questioning expression.

“Oh, I’m alright, sweetheart. Just... er... thinking...” he said, bashfully pulling away and returning to the tree, where he hung the two thoughtful gifts right next to each other.

“Right...” the girl said as she followed him back to the tree, then practically shrieked, “so... what the Hell was that?!”

She had thrown a hand out in the vague direction of Crowley.

“Ah, that. Right. Well, you see it’s... I’ve... noticed something recently, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize. Crowley, he’s... he’s very tactile in how he relates to the world. I’m not sure if it’s a byproduct of wearing the glasses all the time, unable to see as well as he naturally can, but... he navigates this wondrous world through touch, and that’s something that... sadly... the two of us have had to refrain from. So... for six thousand years, he’s been starved of the one thing he uses to define his surroundings, the one thing he _needed, _and he... he needed it _from me. _ After all, I am the one he spends the most time with.

“And it’s not only that,” he went on, reaching for the string of lights and using a minor miracle to wind them perfectly around the tree. “I often forget that he was of _Hell. _ Easy to do, what with his often generous and kind nature... er... don’t tell him I said that. A gentle touch was as rare to him as the gold of Ophir. He sought it out the only way he could—with cold, detached, meaningless dalliances with humans...”

He paused, looking to Penny and finding her expression guilty and nervous.

“Oh, not... not you, dear. Well... perhaps, a little. But it’s not your fault. Crowley is desperate for connection, and when... when he couldn’t get it from me, he sought it elsewhere. Nothing a mouse can do when caught in the eyes of a snake. But... we can now. Connect, I mean. In whatever form that may take. And I think... neither of us has really come to terms with that yet. It began... out there, in the South Downs. But breaking 6000 years of training, of self-denial, of... loneliness... it’s going to take some time. But I’m... I’m trying. And so is he, I think. He just has to run away, sometimes, when it gets too much. That’s what he does. I have to accept it, and let him. He always comes back, at any rate, and...”

He paused as he found a slow, amused grin crawling across Penny’s face as he rambled.  


“Oh... oh, you weren’t talking about the touching, you were...”

“Asking about you offering to go with him,” Penny clarified, her grin becoming even wider.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, feeling himself flush. He turned away from her again, hiding himself by walking around the tree and plugging the string of lights into the nearest outlet. The beauty of the glimmering lights succeeded in tamping down his embarrassment, and he simply admired them for a long moment before circling back around to answer her.

“It’s nothing, really,” he said, looking up at the angel-less top of the tree and grinning at the memory of Crowley attempting to toss him atop it. “Just... got in the habit of sitting in his bed while he slept. Reading, or what have you. I think... well, I rather think it’s become a bit of a necessity, at this point. Don’t think he can sleep unless I’m there. Which is why I... asked... if he needed me... to come along.”

Penny pursed her lips together, her eyes softening as she rested a reassuring hand on his arm.

“I see,” she said, turning to pop open one of the boxes of generic ornaments, handing the angel a few. He was immensely happy for the new distraction, taking them to begin happily, if a little tensely, hanging them.

“So, is he... living here now?” she asked, motioning to the stairs.

The angel was confused. “No... he’s just gone to his flat. He... oh! Right. He didn’t tell you. He, er... used a bit of a miracle to... well, to... you see, that door now leads to his flat. In Mayfair.”

Penny’s eyebrows shot up, and she appeared impressed.

“Something really has changed,” she said under her breath.

Aziraphale heard it just fine, but the implication was that _Crowley_ had said that to her, and he would appreciate the context.

“What was that?” he asked offhandedly, leaning around to peer critically at her. She met his eyes, but only for a moment, shrugging noncommittally and reaching for a few more ornaments.

“Aziraphale...” Penny began, but kept herself hidden on the other side of the tree. He had to glean from her tone where she was going next, and it sounded... apprehensive.

“You may want to... erm... be careful. You’re right about him, but I think... there’s more to it than that. He, er... he wants...”

Aziraphale sighed, his hands stilling and just holding a green and gold sphere ornament in his hand. Oddly, he found himself face-to-face with the ornaments Penny had made for them, the twisting length of the snake ornament looking as if it were slithering toward the angel ornament. As if one branch was simply too far away.

He sighed, closing his eyes. “I know what he wants,” he said sadly, and heard Penny set down her ornaments and step around the tree.

With a painful ache in his chest, Aziraphale recalled Crowley, leaping to his feet and fleeing from Aziraphale’s touch. Recalled being locked on the other side of a cream-colored door, recalled the sound of forced silence and pain. Recalled agonizing words, spoken through a haze of tears—“can’t control what I am, but I can keep it from spreading.”

Aziraphale sniffed, finally opening his eyes to look upon a very understanding young woman.

“I know he wants me,” he clarified, dejectedly hanging the green ornament he was still holding. “But... that can’t happen. Not... not yet, perhaps not ever. I... I’m still... _attached, _ as it were, and I... it _terrifies me, _Penny, to think what Heaven would do. Not to me, lord knows I really couldn’t care less about that. But_ to him. _They can hurt him, _really hurt him, _in all the ways that work best. Because they wouldn’t... they wouldn’t understand, they wouldn’t _believe_ that... that an angel could possibly... could...”

He felt himself breathing rather hard and couldn’t remember how to make it stop, couldn’t remember that he didn’t need to breathe.

Penny swiftly jumped forward, wrapping him up in a tight, swaddling embrace that made him realize... perhaps he, too, was also painfully bereft of physical affection.

He gave in to it, wrapping her up and resting his chin on her shoulder as he quietly, nervously went on.

“They would only view it as a temptation. A sin. And they would destroy him. And that... that would hurt worse than anything Heaven, Hell, or Earth could throw at me. _That would destroy me too.” _

He heard her sniffle, and she pulled him impossibly tighter.

“That, and...” he went on, pushing her back so he could look at her. “It does, er... scare me too. Not the physicality, that’s... that’s all rather... commonplace. It’s the... _the change. _ If... we... if he and I were to... take that extra step, things would never be the same again, and... oh, but it’s not like I fear change, not... not where he’s concerned, because... well, things are already changing, aren’t they?”

Penny seemed to know this was rhetorical, so she merely kept her hands clasped on his arms—soothing, reassuring.

“But it... what if... what if that... that _happens, _and... I find that... it’s not... something I want, it’s not something I can... oh, but he’d be so disappointed, to have been so close and then have it ripped away, if I can’t...”

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale...” Penny interrupted gently but forcefully, rubbing her hands up and down both his arms and silencing him with wide but impassioned eyes.

“Crowley gets high just from being in your presence,” she said, and Aziraphale couldn’t help the frantic bark of laughter that bubbled up. “Trust me, whatever form of closeness he can get from you, he will take like a starving man. It’s the reason he hasn’t _discussed any of this_ with you. He’d rather have you at a distance than not at all, and he’s terrified of scaring you away. But you don’t need to feel obligated to take that step with him just because he wants it. Obviously, he’s done just fine finding physical intimacy.... well, maybe not _intimacy, _ but... physical _release_ elsewhere. But you _do need_ to have that discussion. I can’t keep being the monkey in the middle of you two. And I know it’s not your fault, either of you. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult 6000-year habits are to break. But... you’re both keeping things from one another, and it’s hurting _both of you. Yes, it’s going to be difficult. Yes, you’re both going to hear things you’re not prepared for. _But...”

She smiled warmly, a knowing tilt to her lips.

“As Dante said—the path to paradise begins in Hell.”

Aziraphale felt a blossoming warmth in his chest at the statement—both Penny’s use of literature to comfort him, and the truth of it. He softened, raising a hand to rest on her wrist, letting her know he was alright now. She lowered them cautiously, taking the opportunity to pick up her cocoa again and sip at it.

“You’re absolutely right, Penny. Thank you. Thank you for being our intermediary. I know we’re both... er... _difficult, _sometimes, but we appreciate your efforts to help us, really we do. You’re a wonderful monkey in the middle!”

Penny grinned again, taking a final sip of her cocoa and setting it on the coffee table.

“I’m gunna go. But I expect you to put the rest of these up!” she said, falsely scolding and pointing at the ornaments.

Aziraphale acquiesced, nodding. At this point, he might as well.

“Of course, sweetheart. Perhaps I’ll make Crowley do the rest of it!”

Penny scowled as she slung her purse over her shoulder. “Not unless you want them to randomly turn into snakes or something,” she grumbled.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Might not be entirely unpleasant. A bit of a soft spot for snakes, me.”

Penny giggled as he followed her to the door.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asked, suddenly fretting over her.

“What are you gonna do, drive me?” she asked, fond exasperation in her voice.

Aziraphale huffed, pulling around the bottom hem of his jumper to straighten it and jutting his chin up.

“I might! He did teach me, you know!”

Penny smiled genuinely, appearing to know this was a completely empty offer.

“No thank you, ange—er, Aziraphale. Could use a bit of a walk in the snow. Clear my head before I get home to my soon-to-be monster-in-law.”

Aziraphale smiled as he held the shop’s door open for her, fussing with her scarf and pulling it higher on her neck.

“Thank you for the tree, sweetheart. And the lovely ornaments, they’re very thoughtful.”

“Of course, Aziraphale. Happy Christmas.”

With that, she leaned in and placed a quick, simple kiss to his cheek, making him color and fondly place his fingers against his cheek where her lips had been. He’d been this close to humans before, but never one that knew so much—that knew both of them, cared for both of them... loved both of them. It was... a relief of immense proportions, to have someone he could talk to about Crowley. Someone who understood the demon’s little quirks, his lovable hisses, his... kind heart.

“Happy Christmas Penelope,” he said, waving to her as she backed off the shop’s stoop and into the lightly falling snow. It made her look wondrous and beautiful, just as God had made her.

She pointed mischievously up to the shop’s ceiling before winking and calling back, “You should put up some mistletoe, maybe you’ll find yourself under it with a certain demon!”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm so much he was certain he’d melt the snow in a ten-foot radius.

“Cheeky!” he called, beginning to close the door.

“Always!” she yelled back, waving a hand over her shoulder and turning to disappear into the snowy night as the door clicked closed.

As he stood, suddenly alone, in the warm foyer of his beloved bookshop, his chipper mood began to devolve slowly into worry. His eyes roved instinctively to the spiral staircase, and the closed door leading to Crowley’s Mayfair flat.

Penny was right about one thing—they were still hiding from each other. And that ended now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *G A S P*
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger. Will post the next one later tonight.


	44. Christmas in SoHo, part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cat is officially out of the bag. And it goes surprisingly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+
> 
> For referenced sex.

Crowley was sitting on his bed, on top of the comforter, still fully clothed, knees pulled up to his chest and chin resting on them, trying and failing to stop panicking.

He couldn’t understand it, really, truly couldn’t understand what had happened—one minute he was fine, the next, the prospect of sharing _bloody Christmas_ with Aziraphale was stealing his breath and making his bones feel like jelly.

He’d sobered up before ever leaving the back room, feeling his stomach begin to turn, and hoping to avoid two hours worth of eggnog making a reappearance.

_What the Hell do I give Aziraphale that doesn’t scream ‘I’m fucking in love with you?!’ _

A sudden, visceral image went through his mind just then of hi ripping his still-beating heart from his chest with his burnt, blackened claws and dropping it with a _slap_ to Aziraphale’s wooden desk.

_‘Here, have this. It was already yours to begin with.’ _

He shook his head in an attempt to be rid of the image, his now-empty stomach doing little to quell the sudden but insistent nausea.

_Why?! Why did I think this would be a good idea? I need more distance, not less. Christmas! Bloody Christmas. Some demon you are. _

And yet... the thought of openly being allowed to _give something _to Aziraphale... to see that adoring look on his face, that sparkle in his wondrous sapphire eyes, the way his hand seemed to hover out subconsciously, seeking to _touch_... lightly, softly appreciating.

Crowley groaned in frustration, rearranging and shoving his forehead against his knees. Of course. Of course he was motivated by that slight hope, that minute chance of _being touched. _

It was thoughtless, impure, _rude; _hoping for reciprocity. Didn’t even have to be anything material just_ put your hands on me. _

Just another reminder of what he was—a bloody demon. Can’t just give a gift for the joy of it, for the happiness it brought. Had to _want something in return. _

Two soft, quiet knocks on his open bedroom door brought him out of it, and he found—who else—Aziraphale, standing in the dark hallway, looking a little nervous.

“You’re not sleeping,” he observed, taking a single step into the bedroom but stopping. He fussed at his jumper, avoiding Crowley’s eyes.

“Couldn’t,” Crowley choked against his knees. _Not without you. _

Somehow, it seemed Aziraphale understood this, because he gingerly walked forward, crawling onto the bed and sitting next to Crowley, his back against the headboard.

He sighed, brazenly reaching over and taking Crowley’s left wrist where it was tightly wrapped around his knees and pulling it loose. Crowley allowed it, holding his breath as Aziraphale brought it in front of him, gently turning it over to reveal his palm—and the charred, blackened mark Lucifer had left.

Crowley felt a wave of shame come over him upon the sight, and he turned his head away to peer out the open window. It was dark, but the layers of fluffy snow made it look welcoming and... quiet.

Suddenly he felt Aziraphale’s thumb gently rubbing back and forth just below the mark, on the mound of his palm, right where he’d bitten himself back at the cottage.

He wanted to be standoffish about it, but the rhythmic slide of the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb _back and forth, back and forth_... made his breath even out and the tension in his rigid shoulders slowly begin to release.

“You hurt yourself,” Aziraphale practically whispered, his tone dejected as he stared down at Crowley’s hand. “You hurt yourself because you felt ashamed...”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about this,” Crowley snapped, tensing up again and attempting to pull his hand away.

Aziraphale’s grasp went from gentle to Gaurdian-of-the-Eastern-Gate strong, gripping Crowley’s hand and preventing his retreat.

“And you don’t have to,” the angel said, immediately releasing the pressure when it became clear that Crowley was relenting in his attempt to pull back. “Just listen.”

Crowley sighed, hearing the warbling shake to it but remaining silent anyway.

“I know, Crowley. I know what you want from me.”

Crowley felt like his blood had turned to ice—the tiny hairs on his arms standing up and a chill running from the tips of his ears to his toes. Suddenly Aziraphale’s thumb on his hand felt like fire against his flesh—drawing his attention like a beacon and letting him focus on nothing but the sensation... that, and the chilling realization that something terrifying was coming.

“You want to be physical with me,” Aziraphale went on, laughably calm and measured. “But you felt shame at the thought, and I need you to understand something.”

Aziraphale finally looked up at Crowley’s eyes, and the stare was so intense that Crowley immediately broke it, looking down at their hands.

“There is nothing... _absolutely nothing_ for you to be ashamed of,” the angel said, the conviction in his voice staggering. Crowley had heard men on the battlefield release war cries with less confidence.

He swallowed, knowing he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.

“Crowley, just because you are... _what you are, _it doesn’t... it doesn’t mean that you are any less deserving of compassion, of l—”

Crowley heard the word coming long before Aziraphale spoke it, and he was ready to meet it with sword and shield.

The words spilled out with the fervor of The Flood.

“We can’t. _I can’t. You’re an angel. _I honestly can’t believe you can even touch me, be near me... without getting... _tarnished, charred, smeared.” _

Crowley could see in his periphery that Aziraphale’s mouth had snapped open to rebut, but he was faster.

“I ran away... _hurt myself_... because... it’s... I... it triggered something. And I had to run because I... _wanted more. And I can’t, I can’t! I can’t want more, not from you, it’s dangerous, it’s forbidden, you can’t, or shouldn’t, or... I don’t know! But it terrified me, that I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t turn it off. And I know that angels... don’t. I know that, I do. Even if you wanted something so... base and broken and impure... you’d Fall. And... _God, Aziraphale,_ I could never do that to you, be that, for you. It’s been six thousand years and I can still _feel it_, still know that deep, rending emptiness in my chest, in my soul. I know it _every day, _Aziraphale. I look in the mirror and I see what She threw away, I hear my voice and hear what She wanted silenced. And I think of you knowing this, what it _feels like..._ seeing yourself as I see myself, and I... I’ve never felt such pain as when I think of that. _

_“So then I... I was betraying you, I was insulting your very_ nature! _And I still couldn’t stop! I could see it, so clearly, so, so clearly, Aziraphale, I still couldn’t stop, still couldn—”_  


His voice had gone higher and higher pitched as he went on, the words spilling out quicker and quicker until it was nothing more than a manic string of barely coherent babble. His ears were ringing a high-pitched tone that slowly drowned out everything else, his pulse hammering beneath his skin like it desperately wanted out, and making his fingertips tingle.

“Crowley... Crowley... Crowley!” Aziraphale practically shrieked, spinning on the spot to face him, pulling him against his chest and wrapping both arms around him in as tight of an embrace as he could manage. Crowley tried to calm down, slow his frantic breaths, still his shaking, but it wasn’t working—all he could see, think, _feel_ was Aziraphale crying, screaming, desperate to know _why_ as his flesh boiled and blistered, his bones bent and broke, his _wings burned_, turning to ash and failing to stop him as he careened downward.

Aziraphale’s pearly wings erupted from his back, curling around to cocoon the both of them in overwhelming warmth and compassion.

It was like a balm; cooling the heat in Crowley’s lungs, soothing the boiling rage just under his skin, and Crowley blew out the tension through pursed lips, clutching Aziraphale desperately and closing his eyes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, calmer this time, but with a worried uptick at the end. He spoke against Crowley’s shoulder, still clutching him tight. “I’m just as scared as you are to face what this newfound... _freedom_ really means. But I’m still attached, and... Heaven can be just as brutal as Hell, if given the chance, but please know that—”

He paused, his voice cracking and his hands loosening to push Crowley back to look at him. He reached up cautiously, plucking his sunglasses away, and Crowley felt an odd reluctance at seeing them go—knowing he was now fully exposed.

Aziraphale placed them on the nightstand and turned back, his eyes holding Crowley’s with unwavering strength.

“The only reason I would worry about that, about my fragile allegiance with Heaven, is because... is because I would worry about the consequences it could bring upon _you! _ I’m not worried about me anymore, I don’t care what they think, I don’t even care if I Fall—”

“Don’t you dare, Aziraphale, don’t you dare say that...” Crowley begged, his voice trembling like a too-taut trapeze wire. He thought Aziraphale knew, thought he understood. _Don’t say that, please don’t say that. _

“But I don’t, Crowley. The only thing that could hurt me, the only thing that motivates me anymore, is_ losing you. _And still being their servant... it endangers you. Before, when you were... _affiliated, _that protected you, however loosely. They wouldn’t move against you personally, because it would start a war... well... a war before they were ready for one. Not that Hell was keen on defending you, but... just by virtue of you belonging to them, they were... let’s say obligated to. But now... they wouldn’t bat an eye, in fact your destruction would probably be a weight from their shoulders, and I’m willing to bet Heaven knows it. And your... our... _relationship... _ Heaven knows now. _All of them. _And you said yourself, it’s likely that half the council wanted a worse punishment for me than what was handed down. I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t put it past them to take it into their own hands, to find us, to take away the only thing that... the one thing I can’t...”

Suddenly it was Aziraphale who was trembling, tears springing to his eyes and Crowley _hated _that he had any part in causing it.

The angel rallied, though, and hurried to go on.

“Don’t get me wrong, Crowley, becoming... intimate... physically, it... it does frighten me...”

Something viciously protective bubbled up in Crowley’s throat, and he croaked out,

“You know I would never hurt you.”

Aziraphale smiled, so genuine it physically hurt to behold it—a thrumming ache in Crowley’s lungs that made him want to tear them out.

“Of course, my dear, of course. It has nothing to do with you. It’s just... I f—fear—”

That word seemed to be difficult for the angel to say, and Crowley was reminded that Aziraphale, too, bore the scars of his aligned side.

“What would happen, what would become of us, if... if we... did something so momentous. Would we change? Would I treat you differently, would you treat me differently? And...”

The angel’s voice broke then, and he swallowed before continuing. He averted his eyes, looking down and taking both Crowley’s hands back into his own.

“And, Crowley... I can’t guarantee that... that it’s s-something that I... as you said, most angels are sexless, and I... I’ve never... I don’t... well, I mean to say, that...”

Crowley stopped him with a quick, gentle squeeze to his hands.

“Aziraphale... I, er... usually like your flustered dithering, but... I need to understand. Please don’t worry about your words being unangelic, no one’s listening. Please help me understand what you’re trying to say.”

Aziraphale sighed, continuing to stare at their joined hands.

“If we did... _this_...”

“Sex, angel,” Crowley finally felt the confidence to say. Aziraphale colored, looking as much like his cherubic ornament counterpart as angelically possible.

“Yes... _that_,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I can’t guarantee that it’s something I’d be interested in... _continuing to do.”_

Crowley felt the blood leave his face. “Are you interested at all? Angel, please, please, _please_ tell me you’re not just considering this because you know _I want it...” _

“Oh, no, no, certainly not. I do admit I’ve had some... _ahem... curiosities. _But I... what if I find it’s not something I want? I try it, and decide it’s not for me? You know, like me and spicy things. Tried it, didn’t like it, decided to avoid it in the future. Oh, Crowley, I would feel _awful_ if I did that to you—gave you what you wanted, never to be had again.”

Crowley selfishly had to admit, to himself only, that he wouldn’t want that either. He wasn’t sure he could just have a taste, wasn’t sure he could survive it. He’d always want more, always hold that one experience in his mind, always _hunger_ for it.

But... the alternative was worse. Aziraphale partaking out of pity alone, not really wanting it, but succumbing because he... because _what? _He felt sorry for Crowley? That was an absurd, insulting, awful reason to do something you didn’t want to, and Crowley couldn’t bear the thought. He’d been in that position, been forced to abandon his own comfort to get a temptation done, and it was... a hopeless feeling. It was lonely, and painful, and... he didn’t even want to entertain the_ thought_ of making his sweet, insufferable, _bastard_ angel feel that way.

He rearranged, sitting up straighter to look Aziraphale in the eyes.

“Angel... if that’s what happens, then that’s what happens. _Promise me you’ll never forego your own comfort just to appease me. _I can’t lie, I’ll always... feel this way, always want it. But I’ve been just fine for 6000 years, finding what I _want_ elsewhere. And that’s what it is—a want, a _desire. _I can live without the things I want, have done. But I can’t live without the things I _need. _And I need you. In whatever capacity you’re prepared to give me.

“If you found that it was something you didn’t want, I would simply cherish the one gift you gave me. Hold it, keep it, remember it. For you, angel, I could.”

The tears fell now, and it broke Crowley’s heart; he died to kiss them away, but wasn’t sure that, just because he’d been given hope, he’d been given _permission. _

Aziraphale squeezed his hands, sniffling suddenly, looking back up with conviction, and crashed their lips together.

Crowley’d been shot about a thousand times in his immortal life, been electrocuted, fallen from buildings. He’d been kicked by horses and bitten by dogs. He’d burned in London in 1666, at least a little, and he’d gone into the sea on numerous ships. And he’d been exorcised. 

Twice.

None of it added up to even half the shock and splendor he felt as the angel’s insistent lips pressed and moved against his own. It was exactly as he’d thought, as he’d dreamed, as he’d _fantasized _, and so, so much more. The angel’s kiss was much like him—unbearably soft and sweet, but with little dashes of absolute _bastard_ thrown in.  


He tasted of cocoa and peppermint, his tongue boldly pressing at Crowley’s lower lip, and when the demon was too stunned to allow entry, he _bit_ lightly at it.

Crowley whimpered, and thankfully Aziraphale understood, placing a hand on Crowley’s chest to push him away. Not that Crowley needed to be pushed away—it was more that Aziraphale was removing the temptation from his own lips; like he pushed plates of delicacies away when he knew he shouldn’t indulge anymore.

“So sorry, my dear,” he said, a little breathless, and Crowley watched as he bit and then licked at his lips, clearly still tasting the kiss on them and savoring it like the Ritz’s best cream cake. It made streaks of fire shoot up Crowley’s spine and settle somewhere behind his eyes, making his vision spin and ears ring.

“Got a little carried away there,” Aziraphale panted, his hand staying pressed against Crowley’s chest, and he was certain the angel could feel his heart _slamming_ against it.

Inside his mind, Crowley was positively _screaming_; ‘no, please, carry away—way away. Bloody hot air balloon, steam train, jet engine, whatever.’ But outwardly, his lips had turned into useless, blissfully bitten ornamentation. He tried to respond, but all that came was a pathetic little mewl.

“I think, my dear, that... it would be safe to, er... shelve this discussion until... well, until I’ve completed Heaven’s trials. They’ll be watching rather closely, and... I... I worry that...”

“I understand, angel,” Crowley was finally able to say, his voice unsteady but strong. Heaven’s retribution was one of Aziraphale’s major concerns, and he wouldn’t push him. If he wanted to wait, they would wait.

“Those could take... years, though, love. That’s... that’s not... too long to wait?” Aziraphale asked, his voice small and weak.

Crowley couldn’t help the scoff, and Aziraphale gave him a bittersweet laugh.

“Aziraphale, I could wait from now to kingdom come. Will, if that’s what it takes. Not that... it’s already decided, or anything. You’ve just got... some time, I suppose, to really... er, think on it.”

Aziraphale smiled sweetly, abandoning Crowley’s hands and bringing his own up to cage in Crowley’s jaw.

“I don’t deserve you, my love,” he said, a thumb caressing up and down Crowley’s cheek and silencing the demon’s protests to the term ‘my love.’

Crowley had had just about as much sweetness as he could stand, so he grinned wickedly, pulling away from Aziraphale and miracling himself into his pajamas and under the many layers of warm sheets.

“So... whatcha gettin me for Christmas?” he asked playfully, watching as Aziraphale stood, trying to disguise the way he swiped away the tears on his face before hiding his wings away, slipping from his jumper, removing his bow tie, and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his sky blue shirt.

“Well that’s part of the fun, not knowing,” Aziraphale said, pulling the sheets back and sliding in. It didn’t go beyond Crowley’s notice that that statement could be in reference to either conversation, and he smiled.

He also noticed that he hadn’t asked Aziraphale to stay, and Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned that he would—and yet he was, sidling up next to Crowley and waving a hand to summon a book from the shop.

Suddenly Crowley’s worries about proximity were nonexistent, and he flattened out in bed, moving in and throwing a hand over the angel’s legs.

He responded by placing his book-less hand in Crowley’s hair and began stroking trough it rhythmically.

“Hey angel,” Crowley mumbled groggily as the pass of Aziraphale’s fingertips against his scalp threatened to send him right off.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Erm... I know... _that_ has to wait. But... in private, when we’re hidden away, with no chance of being seen… could... could I... would it be alright if...”

Crowley had to swallow an impressive lump in his throat before continuing,

_“Could I kiss you again?” _

It came out as a weak, scared little squeak, and it made Aziraphale go still, his hand pausing in Crowley’s hair.

He settled then, his hand beginning to move again as he grinned minutely.

“We’d have to be very careful. But... you know... I think... I think I’d like that.”


	45. Christmas in SoHo, part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our angel and demon exchange gifts. Everyone is overwhelmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> A P A I N F U L amount of fluff. And I am NOT sorry :-D

The snow was already coming down so hard at noon on December the 25th, that even the short jaunt from curb to bookshop door managed to fleck Crowley’s dark clothing with bright little spots, peppering the tips of his flawlessly coifed hair. 

Aziraphale was waiting for him, holding the door ajar and beckoning hurriedly to him, all the while giving any who might think an open door meant an open business a narrowed, threatening glare.

Crowley was looking especially stylish today—having swapped his lighter weight Saville coat for a slim, double breasted charcoal grey pea coat and deep maroon scarf that cascaded over his trim frame like so much spilled wine. Suddenly, and certainly for completely unrelated reasons to Crowley’s dapper appearance, yes, definitely unrelated; Aziraphale’s mind wandered to a certain proclamation from a certain nosy witch about hanging mistletoe in the foyer. With a bit of panic, Aziraphale allowed his eyes to nonchalantly roll upward as Crowley entered and shut the door behind him, to check that he had, in fact,_ not_ just accidentally miracled the greenery onto his old chandelier. To his relief (and certainly no disappointment, definitely not), he had not. 

“Oh, my dear, where were you? Why didn’t you just come from your flat?” Aziraphale asked, motioning to the stairs as he unwound Crowley’s scarf, much like unwrapping a gift, he thought with no small amount of amusement, and hung it on the coat rack. 

Crowley scoffed, jutting his head in the direction of the Bentley, which sat, pointedly _not_ collecting snow out front. The blasted stuff knew better than that.

“Well, first of all, just because I have that option doesn’t mean I’ve an excuse to neglect the old gal,” he drawled, and Aziraphale noticed that he wasn’t unbuttoning his coat because he was keeping a hand held behind his back. “And secondly…” he paused, pulling his hand out to reveal a dark bottle with a gold bow tied elegantly about its neck, the color and sheen very much mimicking the very serpent’s eyes who was presenting it proudly, “I had to make a stop on the way.”

Aziraphale was fairly certain eyes weren’t meant to go as wide as his did just then, seeing the label; _Vega Sicilia Unico Reserva, Ribera del Duero 1898. _

Aziraphale stuttered, taking the bottle and admiring its aged and yellowing label, but knowing that, by some little demonic miracle perhaps, the wine inside was still in perfect condition.

“But… but Crowley, where… where would you even _find something like this, _ and especially on _Christmas Day, _no less?!” he gasped, turning the bottle in his hands and feeling the snow-chilled class on his fingertips.

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” the demon snapped back smoothly, waving a hand down his front in a move that both displayed him as the answer like some… Hellish Vanna White, and unbuttoned all eight buttons on the pea coat. He shrugged from it, flinging it perfectly onto the coat rack with abandon. It seemed he’d seen fit to actually dress for the occasion—a fitted black button-down, maroon tie that matched his scarf, and impossibly tight slacks rather than impossibly tight jeans. 

Aziraphale was simply helpless but to admire him, reaching up fondly and brushing a bit of snow from his hair and catching the way Crowley briefly closed his eyes.

“Well you’re looking wonderfully natty today, my dear, dare I say you’re feeling the holiday spirit?” he asked, knowing it would make Crowley bristle and satisfying in the way he was _completely right. _

“N- I… that’s… _no!” _Crowley stammered, reaching up and pulling his glasses off. Aziraphale’s heart did a short, skittering backflip, as it always did, upon seeing the brilliance of the demon’s wondrous golden eyes. “For your information, _angel, _I saw the getup in a storefront and de—you know what, no, I don’t have to justify my sense of style, least of all to you,” he said defensively, but with an air of fondness. He then grumbled, “ ‘M always _natty.” _

Aziraphale grinned, holding up the bottle as he said, “well, thank you, my darling, this is very kin—kind… kind of… demonic, of you. Yes, very, making someone… er, miss some family time, on Christmas, to… erm… sell you a… horrendously expensive bottle of wine. Yes, very naughty, indeed,” he stammered, having had to violently overcorrect upon seeing the look on Crowley’s face that screamed ‘try me,’ after hearing the word _kind_ threaten to make an appearance.

“Hm… yes,” Crowley accepted his bumbling and rocky excuse for a compliment, sauntering further into the bookshop and beginning to rub his arms. Aziraphale followed close behind, admiring the bottle as he went and willing his new gramophone to play some Nat King Cole.

“Fire’s already lit, if you’re cold,” he said, reading the faded Spanish on the label. “1898?! A… a good year. The year you woke up from that dreadful hundred-year nap of yours, if memory serves.”

“Dreadful for you, maybe. I’ve never felt so refreshed,” Crowley said with a lopsided grin, strolling quickly to the fire and turning his back to it to warm himself. “Had to piss like a bloody track horse, though.”

Aziraphale giggled as he pulled a few glasses from the cupboard, finding he had not the heart to admonish the demon over his crass words.

“Do the honors?” Aziraphale asked, holding the bottle out, and Crowley’s hazy, comfortable, half-shrug said all that his mouth did not;_ ‘I am far too warm over here to even think about leaving this lovely fire. Be my guest.’ _

“Right,” said Aziraphale coolly, turning his corkscrew into the ancient stopper and pulling, delighting in the familiar _pop. _

“Mind you, that’s not your gift. I’m not so cheap as to get you a single bottle of wine…”

“Cheap?!” Aziraphale interrupted heatedly. “Crowley, this bottle is worth _thousands of pounds! _I should think it would make an excellent gift!”

“Well… regardless. That’s just extra, as it were,” Crowley said, holding out a hand to accept his glass as Aziraphale approached.

They should have let the wine breathe, but neither had ever counted ‘patience’ among their defining characteristics, so they clinked their glasses together.

“Cheers, love,” Aziraphale said, sniffing at the strong, oaky bouquet. “Happy Christmas.”

Crowley paused, a flash of worry going through his naked eyes that was quickly replaced with comfort. He smiled, almost dopily, and responded quietly, bashfully, “Happy Christmas, angel.”

Aziraphale turned, collapsing into his favorite chair and leaving Crowley to covet the fireplace and the wine.

“I see you finished up that blasted tree Penny brought,” Crowley said, turning his head to eye the painfully colorful thing. It didn’t go beyond Aziraphale’s notice that the demon’s eyes roved downward to the single, large gift beneath the lowest boughs, lingering on it.

“Oh, I rather like it,” Aziraphale replied, happy to see color coming to Crowley’s cheeks. “Plenty of things happening this Christmas that have never happened before, so… might as well take in all the traditions.”

“Quite,” Crowley replied, looking up to the bare top. “No angel, then?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, I… well, it just felt… I dunno, there was something so… self-serving about that. Felt… egotistical, to put something atop it that… symbolized _what I am. _And then I considered a star, and I didn’t like that either. The birth of Christ beneath the star was certainly a… memorable one, but his life was just… and then what happened, I… oh, I think I may be feeling this wine already…” he said, knowing Crowley could see right through him.

And see through him, Crowley did, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he grinned sadly, nodding his understanding and looking back to the tree. “I like it this way. It’s very… _you. _ Missing something, but almost… better for it.”

Aziraphale felt his heart soar, and his face warm. He knew he was blushing, so he quickly raised his glass, sputtering “thank you, my dear,” into it and causing a comical echo.

Crowley cleared his throat in that way he had, the way that screamed ‘too much sentiment, must change subject.’

Aziraphale was practiced at reading that particular book. Knew it like the backs of his own eyelids. “So, how would you like to do this? I went to the market yesterday and picked up a ham and some fixings, you know, since nothing is open today. It’s all rather simple; just pop it in the oven. Would you like to eat, or… erm… exchange… _gifts_ first?”

There was something that tasted forbidden still, about suggesting the two of them exchange gifts. Of course, he’d given Crowley little trinkets here and there—there was a shoebox in the demon’s desk to prove it. But the idea of _Christmas_… of exchanging tokens of their affection, of celebrating the other’s presence on a holiday… it was still so unfamiliar and terrifying. 

Clearly Crowley was feeling the same, his expression stricken and his body taut and tense. He powered through, like he always did, swallowing visibly and mumbling, “Why don’t you… er… put the food in the oven, and we’ll… you know… while it cooks?”

Aziraphale smiled, sipping his wine and enjoying the way it took the edge off. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

With a wave of his hand, the food stuffs in the refrigerator in his flat upstairs made their way into an already perfectly preheated oven that had been cool to the touch only a moment ago. For some reason, Aziraphale had found the idea of leaving this room, leaving Crowley, if only to prepare a meal… well, it was simply reprehensible.

Crowley smiled, waving his hand to perform his own demonic miracle. There was a gentle_ thud _as a small, classy silver snuffbox wrapped with gorgeous red satin appeared beneath the tree next to other.

“That’s not the gift either, it’s inside. You just get to keep the box,” Crowley clarified, and Aziraphale nodded, unable to keep the adoration from spilling from his gaze, making the demon fidget.

“Well… shall we?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly feeling monstrously nervous. _What if Crowley doesn’t like it? What if he got me something incredible, and then my gift pales in comparison? Oh, good grief, do the humans feel like this? This is not as pleasant as they make it out to be…_

Crowley appeared to be suffering the same, a finger _tap-tap-tapping _away frantically against his thigh, and his serpentine eyes darting from gifts, to tree, to angel, to wine. 

Aziraphale sighed, rising from his chair and wrapping his hand back to the nape of Crowley’s neck. It was intimate, but… those were becoming more frequent these days, with the weight of several burdens lifted.

It was as if he’d placed ice on a burn—Crowley settled visibly, letting out a long breath, closing his eyes, and stilling his hand.

“It’s our first real Christmas, Crowley. If we get it wrong, we laugh it off and chalk it up to being amateurs at this whole… _gift giving_ thing. Come. Sit.”

Crowley shook his head, but not anxiously. “ ‘M actually… comfy. Here, by the fire.”

_Ah. Always cold, my wily serpent. _

Aziraphale nodded, turning back and pulling a decorative throw pillow from the couch and handing it to Crowley.

“Here. Your tiny bum will fit on that, yes?”

Crowley snorted laughing, and for a moment, Aziraphale expected to see a bit of horrendously expensive wine dribble from his nose. Alas, the demon was more practiced than that.

“ ‘S not… _tiny_,” Crowley barked, placing the pillow on the hardwood before the hearth and plopping onto it. He wiggled happily closer to the fire as Aziraphale bent and pulled his monstrosity of a box from beneath the tree and placed it before Crowley. It was nearly the size of the demon’s torso.

He grinned at the look of confusion and consideration on Crowley’s face, finally realizing that_ this_ was the part people enjoyed; watching the childlike excitement cross his features, his golden eyes questing over it and asking ‘what is it?!’

Aziraphale picked up Crowley’s gift to him, admiring the snuffbox as he wandered back to his chair. It would have been a wonderful gift on its own—sophisticated, twirling floral patterns lining its sides, and a flawless tortoise shell medallion set in a circle of what looked to be gold leaf.

“Oh, this box alone is _exquisite, _Crowley, where did you find such a treasure?!” he gasped, allowing his fingertips to follow the floral pattern, and over the red satin bow. He couldn’t help but notice the way Crowley’s eyes followed every miniscule movement of his hand, delighting in it.

“A magician never reveals his tricks,” the demon said with a Cheshire grin. “Go ahead. Open it.”

“Oh, but, wouldn’t you like…”

“Angels first. I insist,” Crowley interrupted, his rapt attention honed in on the snuffbox with predator-like intensity. 

“Oh, alright…” Aziraphale said, finding that his hands had begun to shake as he gently tugged the bow loose. He inhaled hard, taking one last look at Crowley, who was leaning forward and biting his lip excitedly.

He tipped the snuffbox open to reveal a plush little silk display pillow, and atop it, a silver key.

For a moment, he was confused—_what do I own that needs a key? And if it’s not something I own, what do I need that requires a key? Oh, merciful heaven, please say this is not a car key…_

But no, something about it was familiar. He recalled holding this key, his finger catching on that little notch where it must have been dropped, recalled using it. Turning it and fussing with it in a door that wouldn’t really…

_“No…”_ he gasped, a hand fluttering to his heart, which was hammering unnecessarily. _“You… you didn’t?!” _he exclaimed, pulling the key out and holding it up. 

“Yep,” Crowley said, sounding and looking both reassured and very satisfied. “It’s all yours, er… _ours. _Technically, the deed’s in my name, not sure how human laws are with giving property as a gif—”

_“Crowley, you bought the cottage?! In the South Downs?!” _Aziraphale practically shrieked, his brain failing to catch up to his mouth. 

Crowley seemed taken aback by the angel’s volume, but not deterred. “Yes, angel. We both, er… really enjoyed our time there. Had some… life-altering revelations, as it were. Bit sentimental, I know, but… I figured… perhaps… we could use a place like that. You know, away from the city, away from all the people. A place we can just be… _us.” _

“But… but it wasn’t for sale…” Aziraphale continued to blather on, his mind in a state of mixed denial and shock.

Crowley gave him another wicked grin. “Anything’s for sale, if you offer enough.”

Aziraphale was finally able to laugh, but it was tight and stressed. “But… where did you… I mean… did you miracle up the money? A place like that, on the cliffs, must have been worth… oh, I can’t even _imagine…”_

Crowley looked a little stricken, and a little bashful in equal measure. “Oh, that. Er… I actually… I knew it wouldn’t… that is… I knew you wouldn’t _want me_ to miracle up that kind of cash, so… I… I sold… the Mona Lisa draft.”

Aziraphale thought he might vomit up his heart. “Your… you sold your… but that was a gift to you, Crowley… from Da Vinci himself!”

“And I appreciated it very much, at the time. And I got years and years of enjoyment from it. But… now it’s in a museum, where others can appreciate it. And… it got me this. A gift for a gift.”

Now Aziraphale was certain his heart was not going to come up his throat, it was simply going to burst in his chest.

“I… I…” he stammered, feeling warmth blossom in his cheeks and cool tears gather in his eyes. 

“Oh, no, angel, don’t… don’t cry, was it too mu—”

Aziraphale fairly tossed the box and key onto the coffee table, falling to his knees on the hardwood and wrapping Crowley up in a suffocating embrace.

_“Thank you, Crowley,” _he sobbed, petting the demon’s hair and not giving a damn how much he bristled at the sudden and intense affection. “Oh, it’s _wonderful. _I… I can’t wait to go back, just you and me.”

He could tell, by the way Crowley turned into a statue in his arms, that he was trying to fight off the sentiment, as he’d always done, so Aziraphale finally pulled away, sitting back on his heels.

“Sorry, my dear. Bit… overcome, is all. I really… really do appreciate it. It’s a wonderful gift. Thank you.”

He pushed to his feet, giving the demon the space he needed to process the overwhelming emotions, and returning to his chair. He picked the key back up, cradling it against his heart as he gestured to the monstrosity of a box sitting next to Crowley.

Sighing, Crowley pulled it across the hardwood until it was practically in his lap, and unlike Aziraphale, didn’t hesitate to tear into it.

That was the lovely difference between the two of them—Aziraphale took his time, savored things, enjoyed the act of them not just the end goal. It was probably why Crowley hadn’t actually _wrapped_ the snuffbox, instead just tying that bow around it.

But Crowley… he was wild, and carefree (or would like to be carefree, if his anxiety could just get out of the way), and he enjoyed _getting to the point. _He liked bulldozing his way through things, leaving a path of (albeit mild) destruction in his wake.

So Aziraphale had fully wrapped the large box in a lovely blue and white snowflake paper he’d found at a cute little craft shop down the street. And tear into it, Crowley did—little bits and flakes of wrapping paper fluttering to the floor like the actual snowflakes printed on them.

And, like a child upturning a rock that may or may not reveal a snake, the serpent cautiously tipped the lid of the box back. The glow from inside was unmistakable, and Crowley finally pulled the lid all the way off.

Aziraphale analyzed Crowley closely as he laid eyes on the puffy crocheted blanket, feeling equal amounts of excitement and apprehension.

It was a tartan print, but one he knew Crowley would like—lines of black, gunmetal grey, and burgundy. But then, following the pattern every third repetition, were lines of shining gold that positively _glowed _with divine radiance. _Aziraphale’s_ divine radiance.

“Angel…” Crowley croaked brokenly, raising a trembling hand to run along the golden line and gasping when his skin made contact. He yanked his hand back, but it didn’t appear to be from pain. At least Aziraphale desperately hoped it wasn’t pain. _Oh, Lord, did I put too much? Does it hurt him?! _

But Crowley returned his hand to the golden threads, this time allowing his quaking fingers to rest on it. He gasped again, but instead of pain, it seemed to be with shock and awe.

“What… how…” he murmured.

“It’s, er… I crocheted it…” and upon Crowley’s aghast expression, “took a couple of quick trips down to Tadfield. Anathema, she taught me. Helped, me, rather. Ok, she did most of it. But the… the, erm… the gold, it’s… it’s me. Or… my… _essence. _You see, I plucked a feather and made thread from it, wove it into the blanket. I recall you saying you… well, after the South Downs, you had mentioned you were… _having trouble_ sleeping, if I wasn’t there with you. And while I certainly don’t mind being there, I… won’t always be able to. And I don’t want you to struggle, when I can’t be there, so I thought… this might pass for… acceptable… my dear, are you alright, you’re white as a sheet?”

Crowley looked like a man who’d been on rough seas for more than a month—his lips quivering, his hands trembling, eyes wide as golf balls.

He tried to speak, his lips falling open as he pulled the blanket from the box and clutched it against his chest.

All at once, in a flash of movement and shifting particles, there was a giant black and red serpent coiled in the blanket, forked tongue flashing out repeatedly and odd, constant hisses escaping.

“Oh, goodness, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh. He’d only seen the demon spontaneously shift twice in 6000 years, and it took something monstrous to make him lose control like that. “Are you quite well?”

“Sssssorry, angel,” he said, continuing to coil his long, slack body tighter around the blanket, which glowed with warmth and angelic love. “Jussssst… o-overwhelmed, I-I th-think.”

“That’s quite alright,” he replied, slipping from the chair to join the demon on the floor in front of the fire. He laid himself down, still clutching the cottage’s key, and rested his head on the bundle of blanket and snake. Crowley’s head emerged from the pile, but quickly dipped to press his forehead (if a snake can be said to _have_ a forehead) against Aziraphale’s chest, effectively hiding his eyes.

“Thanksssss. It’s quite literally perfect.”

“Of course, my dear. I thought you’d like that. Er… the ham won’t be done for some time, what would you say to just… staying here for a bit? By the fire?”

Crowley’s long serpentine form began to slowly shift, half of him coiled with the blanket, half of him coming to rest atop Aziraphale—his head settling on the angel’s shoulder, where he could still easily hear every little hiss and slip of the tongue. 

“Sssssounds good, angel.”

“Right,” replied the angel, voice cracking with emotion as he brought a hand up to cradle the serpent’s smooth head against his cheek. “Happy Christmas, my lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the deal: I have a crap ton written, but not The Trials of Aziraphale, and chronologically, those come next. I am working on them, but given that there are seven of them, it's gunna take me a hot minute. So updates are gunna be a little slow for a little while. Please bear with me.  
Than after that, it's onward and upward!


	46. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen  
(Some mild referenced but not explicit violence)
> 
> (Sorry it took so long to update! I wasn't, and to some degree still still am not, happy with this chapter. It ping-pongs back and forth from scene to summary, so I'm sorry if it's jarring. I just didn't really have many ideas for these first few trials. But I definitely have more as they get more challenging, so stay tuned!)

Crowley was happy.

And not the kind of sporadic, fleeting happiness he’d felt in the past—the kind that never stuck around, mostly because Crowley himself let it fade under the knowledge that it _couldn’t_ last. 

This was a whole new monster.

Sometimes he had to go for walks just to stop himself from spending all day wrapped in his wonderful gift, his sublime angel blanket. It was a near-perfect copy of Aziraphale’s warm, comforting, heady presence—weaker, of course, and didn’t hold a candle to the real thing, but... a passable duplicate.

But then, once he was out on one of his walks, he found that a dopey, love-struck grin was plastered to his face. A couple of humans apparently found it disheartening, that constant unbreakable smile of his, as they shifted their paths to give him a wide berth as he walked. There was probably something instinctive about it—somewhere, deep in their souls, they could sense that he was a demon, and a smiling demon would generally portend disaster. But he was retired, in a manner of speaking, so he found he didn’t quite mind their skepticism anymore.

Occasionally, he’d found himself absently tracing a few fingers over his own lips, desperate to recall the feeling of Aziraphale’s against them.

They hadn’t kissed again, despite Aziraphale having said they could, mostly because Crowley was now so nervous about it. If he had his way, they’d spend approximately 12 hours a day kissing, and the other 12 lying together in bed. Awake, asleep, didn’t matter; just that they were against each other.

No, Aziraphale was going to have to be the one to instigate it, as he had the first one. The only one.

Crowley found that he had grown angry with himself for that kiss. He’d been so shocked, so caught off guard, that he hadn’t responded. He hadn’t cherished it, at the time, for what it was. He hadn’t leaned in, wrapped a hand delicately around Aziraphale’s neck, hadn’t slid his tongue against the angel’s as it quested across his lower lip. So many things, he would have done differently, if he’d only known.

But that regret never lasted long, as it was quickly overshadowed by the reassuring knowledge that... he could try again. And again. And again. And that there was hope, there was light at the end of the tunnel; Aziraphale had said he was open to exploring a physical relationship. _Aziraphale. _ Angel. Prude of the Eastern Gate. Was open... to a physical relationship. Sex. Fucking. _Making the beast with two backs. _1

Although thinking of it that way felt like a betrayal. Of course, if it were Aziraphale... they’d be making love. Naturally, he still shuddered at the term, but it was no longer out of revulsion.

And it was this line of thinking that had Crowley so distracted, when he was painfully reminded that he and Aziraphale were not out of the woods yet.

He hadn’t even noticed he was whistling some tune or another2 when he entered the bookshop, haphazardly swiping up the post from where it had fallen through the slot. Mostly adverts, as he shuffled through it, absentmindedly weeding out the rubbish so Aziraphale wouldn’t have to.

He was just rounding the corner to the back room, distracted by Aziraphale’s approaching aura, when he felt it; so cold against his fingertips, it burned. Similar to dry ice, it was a sensation Crowley was unfortunately quite familiar with.

_“Ah! Sssssshit!” _Crowley hissed, dropping the post to the floor and grasping the fingers of his right hand tightly in his left, in an attempt to make the pain stop.

It didn’t work; it still felt like someone was slowly shoving a hollow needle through his thumb and pointer fingers.

Aziraphale rocketed from his chair and approached, pulling Crowley’s injured hand toward his chest so he could study it, and completely disregarding whatever it was that had caused it.

Crowley was used to pain. Sometimes the onset of it, especially when he wasn’t expecting it, managed to shock him enough to make him verbalize. But at this point, unless it registered at a 6 or higher on his personal pain scale, it didn’t merit the energy it took reacting to it.

But what he wasn’t used to was being doted on; cared for, _worried about._ Like currently—the way Aziraphale gently cradled his hand to analyze the burned and blackened tips of his fingers, the way he tutted sympathetically, the way he dragged Crowley to the sink to run cool water over them.

“You’re... being ridiculous, I’m fine!” he grumbled, barely meaning a word of it. What hurt worse was the way his heart swelled with adoration so quickly, he thought he might just burst.

The burns weren’t fading, and when Aziraphale _shushed_ him, pulling his hand out from under the tap and waving a hand to miracle them away, nothing happened. Which only meant one thing.

They both looked warily back at the abandoned post where it had heaped on the hardwood, neither of them really breathing.

It didn’t go beyond Crowley’s notice that, despite having paled at the realization, Aziraphale didn’t go straight for it—instead he reached for a hand towel and tenderly wrapped it around Crowley’s hand.

After that, the angel gulped, gingerly making his way over to the pile and pulling the lightly glowing gold letter from its depths. He sighed heavily, waggling it back and forth and showing Crowley the wax seal on the front—a complex sigil consisting of multiple crosses, and the initials S/M.

_“Michael,”_ Aziraphale said, his voice a little weak.

Crowley approached, still clutching the towel around his hand, more to appease Aziraphale’s worry than to ease any pain; at this point, he’d already managed to compartmentalize the ache in his fingertips.

Aziraphale’s hands had begun to shake as he broke the letter’s seal with his engraved sterling silver letter-opener. 3

Boldly, Crowley placed his free hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder in support, and when he felt him trembling, he was overwhelmed my fierce protectiveness—a desire to find a horse, a sword, and some bloody armor, and ride into battle to stave off whatever dared to make his angel tremble.

Caught off guard but not wholly surprised by the mental image, he cleared his throat and directed his attention to the unfolding heavenly parchment.

_Principality Aziraphale, _  
_Your loyalty is to be tested forthwith. Per the decision of the council, and dictated by the Archangel Michael, you are hereby tasked with your second trial. _  
_Proverbs 28:27 states_ “Whoever gives to the poor will not want, but he who hides his eyes will get many a curse.”  
_Open thine many ethereal eyes to the inequity around you, and see that what humanity lacks is kindness. Be their hands, their lips, their intention, and remind them of God’s glory. _

Aziraphale let out a sigh that turned to a growl, letting his hand fall with a paper-laden _slap_ to his thigh.

“Earth isn’t the only place devoid of kindness,” he grumbled.

“Whoa, hey, that sounds suspiciously like blasphemy. And, don’t get me wrong, love a good bit of blaspheming, me, but... shouldn’t really be coming from you. Especially when they’re... watching so closely,” said Crowley sympathetically, giving the angel’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Aziraphale’s free hand crossed over his chest to rest atop Crowley’s in appreciation.

“I know, I know,” he said, tossing the letter to the coffee table. “It’s just... _‘Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you.’ _They’re so good at cherry-picking the parts of God’s Word that serve their purposes, but ignoring those which contradict them. Who are they to judge and test me? When I’m not the only one who could do with a great deal of introspection.”

Crowley hated to defend Heaven, but he hated seeing his angel so dejected more.

“Perhaps they are. We don’t know. Unless you’d like to pop upstairs for a bit to have a look around...”

Aziraphale gave him an eye roll, striding to the wine rack against the wall and blindly picking one. It appeared to be a Pinot Grigio of some kind.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale tutted, subconsciously pulling out two glasses and filling them. “I’ve no place or welcome up there anymore. I’m fairly certain the door would be locked to me, as it were.”

He placed the other glass in Crowley’s towel-free hand, and then sipped at his own wine.

“Then... why bother? Raziel said Falling wasn’t an option, punishment-wise. So... just ignore it. It’s what I do with parking tickets. Got a lovely tapestry of ‘em, actually.”

Aziraphale huffed, taking another hurried sip.

“No. I think we both know how Heaven feels about being ignored or blown-off. And while they may not Fell me... we both also know that’s not the worst thing they can do.”

Crowley shuddered, the truth of it burning down to a hundred holy wounds.

He sighed, tossing the hand towel to the coffee table as well, analyzing the blackened tips of his fingers. They wouldn’t heal, at least not quickly. Injuries from blessed objects couldn’t be miracled away—they healed like human injuries did.

Aziraphale tutted again, stepping forward to peer down at them also.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, reaching out and grazing the marks with two very light fingertips. It should have hurt, and on some level it did, but it registered to Crowley like a love bite or fingernails down his back in the throes of... well. Regardless. It definitely didn’t sting like it should have.

“‘M fine, angel. I’ve sustained much worse than a bit of blessed parchment can do,” Crowley grumbled.

The angel smiled warmly, and Crowley’s heart soared.

“Yes, but... I’d hoped, with your newfound freedom from Hell, and the whole exorcism debacle over and done with, to never again see you hurt,” Aziraphale replied softly, running his fingertips over the burns once more.

A jolt of adoration flickered through Crowley’s chest, rising up his spine like a fuse and making his throat tingle. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. In fact, his lips, which now felt devoid and empty, seemed to have other plans.

Noticing the silence, Aziraphale finally looked up, and his worried expression went slack, to form one of knowledgeable smugness.

“You... _you want to kiss me,” _he whispered, his gorgeous mouth slanting up on one side mischievously.

Crowley was certain the sound of his throat swallowing nervously resounded like a car crash in the quiet of the bookshop, but it was quickly drowned out as the blinds on every window collapsed, and the deadbolt on the front door fell into place. Crowley couldn’t quite decide which of them was responsible for it, but it became unimportant as Aziraphale lithely took Crowley’s glass from him, and half-turned to set both down on the mantel over the fireplace.

When he turned back, the smugness on his stupid, stunning, _bastard face_ had tripled, and he goaded,

“Well?”

Crowley surged forward, nearly tripping over himself as he wrapped one arm around the angel’s waist, and the other under his arm to cradle his upper back, crashing their lips together like separated magnets.

Aziraphale yelped into the kiss, but it appeared to only be with surprise at the intensity, because he immediately softened, wrapping Crowley up in an embrace of his own, his deft fingers carding demandingly through his hair and pulling him closer, tighter.

Crowley was determined to make up for his poor performance on the first one—moving his lips carefully but surely, gentle yet rough. He hadn’t allowed his tongue to elongate and fork, but it did regardless, sliding against the angel’s lower lip and slithering in when permitted.

Now it was Crowley’s turn to whimper—really, truly concentrating on the pass of their lips, the waltz of their tongues this time. Aziraphale tasted of raindrops on feathers, sea breeze and desert air. He tasted like years upon years of quiet rebellion, but also a constant, aching _love_ that burned with holiness as it soothed. It all mixed together in a delicate blend capped off with fruity Pinot Grigio. He very nearly pulled away and shouted,

_“If we can do this, steal this moment of bliss behind drawn blinds and locked doors, why, why, WHY can’t you just throw me onto the couch and ravish me?! Or the desk, or against a bookshelf, or on the bloody _floor,_ for all I care.” _

But he knew why. It was one of Aziraphale’s rules. _After the trials, _ he’d said. _They’ll be watching, _he’d said. And Crowley would respect that, no matter if it made sense to him or not.

It was Aziraphale who pulled back first, but he reassured Crowley that it wasn’t for good, never for good, by grabbing his wrist and bringing his charred fingertips up to his kiss-wet lips. He pressed both of them, one at a time, with a sweet kiss, and Crowley’s heart hammered so hard in his chest he just _knew_ Aziraphale could hear it.

The hand in Crowley’s hair released, and made to drag away, but Crowley stopped it, trapping it against his own cheek, and turning to place his lips chastely against the angel’s palm.

“You’re... you’re rather good at that, my dear. I mean... the kissing bit,” Aziraphale croaked, his voice unsteady.

_Me? _Crowley’s inner voice shrieked. _Me, good?! I generally _don’t _kiss, angel, I forbid it. But you? It’s like you were made to kiss me, like God paused while creating you and made your lips the missing puzzle piece to mine! _

He did not, however, say any of this. He simply smiled, and reluctantly released the angel’s hand.

The blinds all snapped open again to flood the shop in dreary mid-January light, but the deadbolt pointedly did_ not_ unlock itself. Aziraphale, having adopted back his air of relaxed, at-home comfort, turned and retrieved their glasses.

How the angel managed to look so put-together, so calm, after having snogged Crowley’s face off, was a pleasant mystery. Especially since Crowley was certain one or both of them had spared a minor miracle to turn his resilient demonic knees into pudding.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, in that way he did, suggesting they both move on from something, but never stop thinking about it. “What do you say to helping me figure out what the _deuce_ they mean by this?”

What they meant, as it turned out, was that said act of kindness was to be determined by Aziraphale. Bit of a dick move, if you asked Crowley, which no one typically did, because it meant Aziraphale wouldn’t know if his chosen task was _enough, _ was acceptable in Heaven’s eyes.

So Aziraphale went all-out.

For a week straight, the angel used moderately-sized miracles to swap the clientele of the Ritz with the tenants of halfway houses, soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and foster organizations, and made everyone believe it was just a normal day.

The poor and downtrodden were treated to the best food and service London had to offer, servers were tipped well, despite no one paying for their pampering, and the rich and privileged volunteered their time (and the funds they’d been prepared to spend at the Ritz) at the aforementioned public outreach organizations.

Crowley had to admit, it was quite impressive.

But Aziraphale, on the other hand, was disheartened.

“It just... it’s so _little, _in the grand scheme of things,” he said one day as they strolled through St. James. “Sure, it was kind while it lasted, but those... those poor people are still poor, and the rich are still rich. It’s just... what have I done, other than show them what’s out of reach?”

Anger flared through Crowley. Heaven was working it’s miracles on Earth, but as usual, they were burning up their conduit in the process.

“Not true, angel,” Crowley replied tersely, tossing a bit of bird seed to a curious duck (they’d switched to seed when a mortified Aziraphale learned that too much bread from park visitors could swell up in the ducks’ stomachs and hurt or kill them).

The angel looked at him curiously, clearly expecting sarcasm or Heaven-bashing. And while Crowley desperately wished to drag their high-and-mighty arses through the mud... his angel was more important.

“Don’t forget, you’re only meant to meddle, not do it all for them. You’re just one angel. You can’t fix all inequity with a few miracles. And you’re not meant to, either. You’re meant to point them in the right direction, and _you did. _

“You reminded the poor of their worth, of how they all deserve to be treated. You dosed the rich with a healthy serving of humility. They spent days and days learning the struggles of their fellow man. And while half of them likely won’t do it again, statistically, half of them might. And you may not have changed the world, angel, but you changed a few people. And I think you and I both know that changing a few people _can_ change the world.”

Aziraphale stopped dead, and with Crowley’s long legs and stride, he nearly left the angel behind.

“Wot?” he barked, spinning around to face his stalled companion.

“Nothing, it’s... I... that was... beautiful, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed, a hand over his heart.

Crowley cringed. “Ah, come off it, I just... just didn’t—”

“You didn’t want me to be sad,” Aziraphale simply beamed, catching up and looping his arm through Crowley’s. Crowley tried to bristle over the call-out, over the fawning and praise. But for the life of him... he couldn’t remember why he should.

The third trial came like the second, but this time Crowley had the good sense to ensure he didn’t touch it (although the devious thought did go through his mind that, if he burned his fingers again, he might earn himself a few more fingertip kisses, maybe more. But that wouldn’t be earning them, that would be manipulative. And while he used to leap at that kind of opportunity... he couldn’t bring himself to do it to Aziraphale. The genuine kind were loads better anyway).

This trial involved Diligence, and Aziraphale knocked it out of the park (figuratively and literally). Although... he may have had just a bit of demonic help. Just a bit.

For the last month, the two of them had been _diligently_ prowling the streets and parks of London (definitely _not_ with a bit of Merlot hidden in Starbucks mugs, certainly not, that would be a Bad Thing), weeding out any seedy or criminal behavior. It felt extremely strange, for Crowley at least, to be thwarting the evil deeds the humans committed in the dark of night. In fact, the very first time he tried one alone had gone completely off the rails.

The two of them had happened across a mugging of a late-night jogger in The Regent’s Park, and Crowley had stepped forward confidently.

“I’ve got this one, angel, you stay put,” he said casually.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked worriedly, watching a man with a ski mask trying to wrangle the car keys from a lanyard around the jogger’s neck. The jogger, for his part, was valiantly kicking the man’s shins.

“Sure. Here. Hold my MerLatte,” he said, winking as he shoved the travel mug into the angel’s free hand.

He swaggered forward, yelling to catch the human’s attention.

“Oi! Shitbird!” he yelled casually.

And it hit him like a sack of bricks.

_“You had _one job_ Crawly,” Beelzebub drawled, appearing bored. They made a show of checking their soiled fingernails and, apparently disheartened by the sight, dragged the slowly extending claws down the filthy dungeon wall to blacken them further. “Explain to me how a man with already violent proclivities suddenly changes his ways and re-re…” Beelzebub made a show of gagging on the word. “Repentzzz? And do keep it brief, I’ve many more failures to punish before noon.” _

_Crowley sighed, weighing his options. His options were… shut up and take it. The Hellish door was hermetically sealed, and not only was the Prince of Demons present, but so were their three nameless stooges, the Erinyes—vile, vicious, animalistic little sprites that followed the Prince around with a plethora of weapons for them to choose from at any time. The weapon of choice today, apparently, was a nine-tail whip drenched in the waters of the river Acheron. Made up of human tears, it wouldn’t destroy like Holy Water would. But it _did not_ feel nice. _

_“I was thwarted by the angel Aziraphale, my Lord, I couldn’t control it,” he replied, keeping his eyes obediently downturned, shifting on his aching knees. _

_This wasn’t, technically speaking, true. Ok, it wasn’t remotely true. Aziraphale wasn’t even there. He was in Barcelona, enjoying fresh Tapas and aged Tempranillo wines. But the trip to Thessaly had been part of the Arrangement; a coin toss Crowley had lost. _

_What Aziraphale hadn’t known, though, was that the exact same trip, the exact same _man_ had been a mission from Hell. They’d both received missives—Aziraphale’s telling him to tempt the man back toward righteousness, and Crowley’s to darkness. _

_But the Arrangement was new, and Crowley didn’t want to risk its continuance by failing to complete the task for Aziraphale. So he’d made a judgement call—deciding he’d rather face a bit of wrath from Hell than the angel’s disappointment. _

_Beelzebub buzzed with irritation, beginning to pace the short length of the cell. _

_“Azzzziraphale. That angel is a dolt. How izzz it you are constantly thwarted by him, Crawly? Our master speaks highly of you, I expect… more.” _

_With that, the Prince snapped their fingers, and Crowley’s already tattered shirt disappeared. _

_Well. This was it. A couple lashes. Not great, but he’d had worse. He could grit and bare it, for his Arrangement with Aziraphale. _

_“Prezzzent your wings, Crawly.” _

_Crowley was in Hell, so technically he didn’t currently have blood. But it certainly felt like all of it rushed to his feet. _

_He whipped his head up to peer desperately at the Prince, even as he gingerly presented his wings. “N-no… no, my lord, pleassse…”_

_“Did you just say no to your superior, filthy serpent?!” the closest of the Erinyes shrieked, brandishing the whip and slapping it against her palm threateningly. This one was wearing a red Baphomet pendant on her lapel, causing Crowley to recall that Beelzebub was in the habit of referring to them as Red, Green, and Yellow. _

_“No, no. It’zzzz fine, Red,” Beelzebub growled, kneeling before Crowley and grabbing him harshly by the throat, forcing his gaze. He tried not to choke around their grip. “I’m tired of this same old bullshit line, Crowley. I zzzzend you on an errand, you fail, and skirt by with little to no punishment because of our Mazzzter’s little… _crush_ on you. It’zzz time to set an example.” _

_The Prince stood, dramatically flattening out their wrinkled morning coat and regalia. “Forty, Red. Twenty per wing. Perhapzzz that will motivate you.” _

_“No, no, NO!” Crowley howled, rocketing to his feet. Green and Yellow were faster, striking so fast Crowley was helpless to do anything but collapse back to his knees as they pulled his arms out to the sides and restrained him. _

_“Remember thizz, Crawly, the next time you get lazy on the job.” _

_He was only able to stifle his screams for the first six lashes. _

_“Crowley? _Crowley!?”

Aziraphale had called to him as he rushed past, revealing his true form; wings and eyes and spheres of light filling the space between the two humans and causing both of them to pass out instantly from fright.

“Crowley! Are you alright?” the angel was asking as he returned to his human-shaped form.

Crowley became slightly more aware, realizing that he was shivering violently, his arms were wrapped tightly around his middle, and in an adjacent plane of existence, his wings were shuddering and spasming with muscle memory. Distantly, he could hear the _snap_ of the whip, and his knees gave out.

“Crowley! Talk to me, what’s going on?!” Aziraphale gasped, following Crowley to rest on his knees before him, reaching out and grasping his arms tightly.

“S-ssssorry, angel, jusssst… just had a bit of… a f-flashback, nothing to worry about, I’m f-fine,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling weighty and sluggish.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Aziraphale huffed, wrapping Crowley up in a tight embrace, and all at once, they were back at the bookshop—or, the flat above it, rather, bathed in horrid tartan-print sheets and yellow-orange candlelight.

“We’ve been a bit _too diligent, _I think,” Aziraphale whispered, stroking through Crowley’s hair in just the way that always sent him right off. “Sleep, my dear. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow.”

And they had, but never again tackling any task alone. If some sordid human activity required thwarting, then they did it together. Until Heaven deemed the third task complete.

So far, aside from a few exhausted ethereal… occult… _whatever_ beings, the tasks had seemed rather simple, rather trivial. Nothing too trying, for his angel.

That is, until Michael turned up at the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Crowley’s favorite line by Shakespeare.  
2Pale Blue Eyes, by The Velvet Underground  
3Which may or may not4 have been gifted to him by a certain demon, and was engraved with swans on both sides, each with a rose held delicately in its beak.  
4 It was.


	47. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ I guess
> 
> She/Her pronouns for Michael, because Doon Mackichan could spill hot soup on me and I'd probably apologize to her.
> 
> TW: one vague suicidal thought by Aziraphale.

Aziraphale had thought, after 6000 years, he knew all there was to know about Crowley. But that had been at a distance. Far-off. Separated by barriers so insurmountable that the little things remained hidden.

Little things like the way Crowley clung to him even in his sleep. The way he started to tap the middle finger of his left hand against his thigh when he was becoming anxious about something. The way he started to blink more often when he was tired and itching for a nap. The way he hid his happiness by age old habit; hardly ever fully smiling, but showing it in the way he moved closer, relaxed, sighed with contentment.

These things Aziraphale had started to notice as they spent more and more uninterrupted time together. In fact, they had practically reversed their routines—separating only for minor individual tasks. Even Aziraphale’s trials, like the latest one that had taken them all over London, slashing the crime rate and generally making it a more pleasant city. Crowley didn’t have to come along, and he certainly didn’t have to help. But it had been a given, that first night and each one after. An unspoken agreement as their eyes met: I’m staying with you.

Aziraphale knew there was something psychological about how tired he felt after more than a month of prowling the streets, doling out holy but slightly vigilante justice. He knew that there was no reason for his body to feel spent, for his mind to feel run-down and exhausted. The placebo effect, he figured. He knew he’d been going, going, going for so many uninterrupted days, and his mind told him he’d feel refreshed if he just stopped and rested. After all, even God rested on the seventh day of creation.

But he hadn’t caved to that desire until the night Crowley froze up in the park before the jogger and mugger. Aziraphale hadn’t even seen his face, but he immediately knew something was terribly wrong. It was the way he froze like a statue, his chest stilling as his breaths halted, his shoulders tensing up and rising slightly in distress. His hands didn’t shake—instead going rigid and straight as if with rigor mortis and hanging tightly by his sides.

That was the final straw for Aziraphale. Heaven could test him all they wanted, he could handle it. But the moment it began negatively impacting his wondrous demon, was the moment Aziraphale decided to disobey. Just a bit.

He’d solved the mugging problem with a quick flash of his true form, ensuring the victim would wake first. As such, he left the carrying out of justice to said victim, which... that was the point of angels on Earth, wasn’t it? To lead humans in the right direction but ultimately let them exercise their free will?

And perhaps the man had. Perhaps he left his mugger lying there on the cold grass of Regents Park. Perhaps he’d called the police. Perhaps he’d given the mugger a swift kick to the nethers.

Aziraphale didn’t much care. He’d swept Crowley up and miracled them back to the flat over the bookshop, into their pajamas, and under the heavy down duvet. Crowley had insisted he was fine, that it was just a momentary flashback, and that Aziraphale was being ridiculous.

But Aziraphale could see the signs—signs he never would have noticed in the past, when he kept a willfully blind eye turned on the demon.

Crowley had been tapping that nervous finger against his thigh since the incident, and he’d kept his glasses on, despite being back in the bookshop. All such clear indicators, and Aziraphale tried not to think of all the times he’d ignored them and allowed the demon to go off alone, scared and in desperate need of comfort, just to go back to his flat and yell at a ficus by way of retribution.

He’d hummed to him, something vaguely Mozart-shaped, he thought, as he gently removed the demon’s glasses and pulled him close. He was bristling at the attention, but he still wasn’t breathing and his muscles were so taut, they felt like alabaster stone.

So Aziraphale had hummed to him for hours, stroking a hand through his hair until his chest began to rise and fall rhythmically, and his body went slack.

It was the second time Aziraphale fell asleep next to Crowley, his own exhaustion weighing him down like anvils on his shoulders. He felt a hint of guilt, just before losing consciousness, that he should be out on the streets, completing his task of Diligence in Heaven’s name.

But he _was_ practicing diligence, here, in this bed, with this horribly broken demon. Just... in a slightly different way. 

After that, he didn’t let Crowley tackle any of the tasks alone, even when he insisted. And it had gone better, the Diligence, when they worked together. And, he supposed, that had always been the case.

He hummed in comfort as he rearranged in the bed, closing his book and looking down at a still-slumbering Crowley. He’d never get used to how serene the demon looked in his sleep—Aziraphale loved watching him sleep, and had now dedicated some of his nights to simply watching him. He supposed Crowley might joke about it being creepy, if he knew, but he certainly never complained about the reassuring stroke of Aziraphale’s fingers through his hair, so it was an even trade.

He groaned as he slowly slid from the bed, shivering slightly at the cool SoHo air before miracling himself into his full ensemble. He turned back, habitually reaching for the folded angel-knit blanket he’d given Crowley for Christmas where it sat on the bench at the end of the bed. He let it fall open, noticing with a pang of regret that his momentary absence had made Crowley begin to shift.

He tossed the blanket over the duvet, feeling the ripple of its divinity in the air before it settled, and Crowley immediately did too.

Aziraphale felt his heart might burst at the way a completely involuntary smile came across Crowley’s deep-asleep face as the blanket’s presence enveloped him.

The angel sighed, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to the demon’s temple, peppering in a dash of miraculous intention in his words when he whispered against the auburn hair,

“Sweet dreams, my dear.”

He shuffled downstairs, intending to make tea and read the paper, but a thought burst into his head that he should pop down the block and get some pastries and coffee for when the demon awoke.

He rather liked that idea. Crowley’s habit toward food was much like Aziraphale’s for sleeping—almost nonexistent, but he indulged when Aziraphale did, and sometimes even developed cravings, when he’d been without for a while. The two of them had been working quite hard as of late to complete Heaven’s tasks, and a little reward couldn’t be remiss. Plus... buttery scones and a sweet latte sounded scrumptious.

Aziraphale found himself grinning idiotically all the way to the cafe, greeting and blessing every human he passed that even glanced his way. By the time he returned to the shop, paper bag of goodies and tray of coffees in hand, half of SoHo was chittering and joyous with angelic grace.

Which was why Aziraphale yelped and nearly dropped everything when he entered his shop to find the Archangel Michael waiting for him rigidly in the foyer.

“Ah,” he said irritably after managing to reign in his shock. He briefly let his eyes rove up the stairs to the flat door, which he’d regrettably left open. “Michael, er... _do come in,” _ he quipped, barely keeping the sarcasm from his tone as he spared a small miracle to deadbolt the shop’s door.

She didn’t respond; merely inclined her chin in haughty resignation as he walked past her to the back room.

“To what do I owe the... why are you here?” he asked, knowing that she recognized his verbal swerve around calling her presence a pleasure, but not caring to temper it. To his knowledge, she was one of his biggest critics on the council, and didn’t feel much of a need to grovel. She felt the way she felt, and no amount of forced politeness was going to change her mind.

She paced the length of the back room before speaking, her hands held behind her back in a vaguely military position.

“You may consider your third trial complete, Aziraphale,” she said flatly, her eyes studying a copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s _The Tell-Tale Heart_ on one of the end tables. “Diligence... it suits you.”  
“Delightful,” he said in a deadpan, unloading the drinks from the carrier and tossing it in his recycling bin below the counter. “Another blessed letter didn’t suffice to tell me this? You really needn’t have wasted your time...”

“Nonsense, Aziraphale,” Michael replied, her tone burdened with feigned reassurance. She reached down and picked up _The Tell-Tale Heart, _and Aziraphale briefly wondered if she could sense the demonic hands that had been the last to hold it. He also acknowledged the irony—his own heart beginning to beat faster as he worried over her presence... especially so close to Crowley.

“Come. Sit,” Michael said, but it sounded like more of a command as she plopped the book back onto the table and lowered herself sternly into Aziraphale’s favorite reading chair, spine straighter than a flagpole.

“Fine standing,” Aziraphale snapped, not even turning to face her and instead unloading the pastries from the bag and placing them on a platter. The Archangel sighed before continuing.

“Aziraphale...” she began, quiet but confident. “I know this whole situation has rather... thrown a wrench in our relationship...”

He couldn’t help but scoff at the word, but Michael did not comment on it.

“But please understand I am only doing what’s best for Heaven, what’s best for _you...” _

“Oh, and this is it, is it?” he snapped, slamming a scone down and spinning to face her. She seemed surprised by his outburst, but not remotely threatened. She was a warrior angel, after all; not much frightened her.

“I was told Falling wasn’t an option, but I’m still expected to follow blindly, to complete these ridiculous tests under threat of... of... what, exactly? It’s the... the _not knowing_ that’s supposed to goad me into submission. I’m supposed to cower and bow to the will of _other angels...” _  
“Angels that sit on the council. A council chosen by your creator to do Her bidding, and you would do well to remember that-“

“Well that’s just the problem, isn’t it!” Aziraphale practically yelled. “Chosen by Her, but not speaking for Her...”

“The Metatron sits on the council, he is the voice of Go-”

“You’re still not listening, Michael!” Aziraphale interrupted, surprised that his voice was continuing to rise. “All of these angels are just... monkeys in the middle. Unless God herself makes a habit of attending boring council meetings...”

“Watch your tongue, Principality...”

“...then we can’t really _know_ if it’s God’s will being carried out, or... or _yours. _ And it’s come to my attention that you, among others, have some kind of... personal vendetta against me.”

“No, that’s not...”

“Then what is it, Michael?! Please, explain it to me! Because from where I sit, it looks like a handful of angels are jealous or... or... _wrathful_ of my role in averting the apocalypse, and would like nothing more than to see me burn. But their voices were silenced by those who would forgive me, so now we find ourselves in this... middle ground. A middle ground where you and I both know that these silly tests are only half the punishment you yourself would have brought down upon me. So how am I supposed to stand here, politely making conversation with you, when all I see is a vindictive angel who despises my chance at real happiness for the first time since bloody _creation!” _

Michael blinked rapidly up at him, her facade of propriety appearing to crack momentarily, and inhaled to respond.

It happened like a bolt of lightning, as soon as the sound of a creaking floorboard hit the back room; Crowley was slammed against the nearest wall, wrists crossed against each other and pinned above him, a Heavenly dagger pressing against his throat.

The demon barely had time to whimper as the blessed metal sizzled against his skin, before Aziraphale had unleashed his wings, his skin and eyes glowing with all the blinding white divine fury he could muster. Above him, his halo (which hardly ever made an appearance) shined with radiance, illuminating the entire bookshop and sending a wave of angelic ferocity clear across SoHo. Outside, an entire city block surrounding the shop suddenly found itself free of fleeing humans, who all simultaneously felt the need to be elsewhere immediately.

“MICHAEL!” Aziraphale bellowed, feeling himself dangerously close to full-fledged panic. Blessed weaponry wouldn’t just discorporate Crowley, it would destroy him.

For his part, the demon knew better than to squirm or fight back, as Michael could easily overpower both of them.

“Remove that dagger from the demon’s throat, or you will find it in yours,” Aziraphale demanded, knowing he had neither the power nor bravery to back up his accusation—at least not with Crowley’s life so clearly in the balance.

Thankfully, Michael was satisfactorily convinced by his eruption, and she took a step back from Crowley, but did not lower the blade. Wisely, Crowley stayed right where he was, unmoving, waiting for Aziraphale to speak.

Feeling himself shivering with nerves, Aziraphale wrangled in his power, his wings disappearing and his glow subsiding as he tried to take a deep breath and really only managed a shudder.

“Michael, allow me to explain something to you. If you or any other angel lays a hand on him, you won’t find these trials necessary anymore, for I will no longer desire to live, and that will be on _your hands, _and those of the entire council. You had to have known this by now,” he said primly, straightening his jumper and bow tie.

While Aziraphale would have loved to see the wide-eyed and shocked expression on Michael’s face, he was drawn to Crowley’s; his face stricken and incredibly emotional—his breaths coming in quick pants and his lower lip trembling a bit.

It was Michael who broke the tension, and her voice was unsteady and broken.

“Y-yes, Aziraphale. My, er... my apologies,” she croaked, eyeing Crowley suspiciously before slowly lowering her blade and replacing it into the sheath within her suit jacket.

“We can all act like civilized ethereal beings, yes?” Aziraphale asked, happy to have adopted a facade of calm to disguise how close he’d been to falling apart.

Both Michael and Crowley looked like they wanted to argue on his being civilized, but both clearly decided against, probably for vastly different reasons.

“Michael, I apologize for my outburst. I should not have raised my voice to my superior,” he said dutifully, tossing Crowley a wary glance and finding that the demon was obviously terrified to move from his spot against the wall.

He approached, placing himself between the two of them and facing Crowley.

“Come,” he asked, trying to say without saying, ‘allow me to escort you away.’

Crowley, trembling slightly, allowed himself to be led further into the back room, but never took his eyes from the Archangel.

“Here,” Aziraphale said by way of distraction, plucking the French Roast from the counter and shoving it in the demon’s hand. He’d already doctored it the way Crowley liked; one cream, two sugars.

“Allow me to start over,” Aziraphale said, turning to perch on the counter so close to Crowley that their shoulders touched. “Can I get you anything, Michael? Tea? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have picked up something from the cafe. They’ve a lovely English Breakfast I think you’d enjoy...”

He could feel Crowley’s uncovered eyes boring into the side of his face, silently screaming _‘what the fuck are you doing?!’ _

He spared him a sideways glance which he hoped said _‘relax. As long as you don’t piss her off, we’ll be fine.’ _  


“No, thank you Aziraphale. I’m fine,” she said cautiously, her eyes only for Crowley, which made the demon shift uncomfortably. Aziraphale could hear that little tick—his finger anxiously tapping away at his thigh—and he died to take his hand in reassurance.

“As I said, I am here to inform you that your third task of Diligence has been completed to the council’s satisfaction... and to assign you your fourth trial.”

Aziraphale sighed, feeling much more confident now, with Crowley safe at his side.

“And as I asked earlier, albeit in an inappropriate tone, why would a letter not suffice? Or Raziel? When your presence could be so easily misunderstood?” he said, cool and calm.

Michael nodded, understanding, but took a step toward the two of them, and Crowley hissed hard, his fangs and claws extending as he took a convulsive step back and collided with the counter.

The Archangel held up both hands in halfhearted surrender, finally looking to Aziraphale. “Because neither a letter nor Raziel have the power to do what needs to be done for your fourth trial,” she said.

Crowley’s hiss devolved to a growl, and Michael’s face twisted to one of annoyance.

“Aziraphale, will you _please_ muzzle your beast?”

With a speed that shocked even him, Aziraphale reached into Michael’s jacket, yanked the dagger out, and slammed the blade into the wooden counter behind him.

“You may outrank me, Michael, but you are on my jurisdiction of Earth, and in my home. I request that you display a modicum of decorum while here, and that includes any guest under my roof. You understand that what you just said could be taken as a threat, and I don’t blame Crowley for taking it as such,” he said icily, staring into the Archangel’s blue-grey eyes and hoping she received even a hint of the rage he held within his own.

She nodded, appearing to war with herself on whether or not to reply with anger of her own. Ever the warrior, though, she clearly played that scenario out in her head, and decided against.

“Yes,” she said curtly, licking her lips before continuing in a very forced and businesslike tone. “I can see now how that would raise suspicion.”

She sighed again, rolling a shoulder, before reciting robotically, “Exodus 20:9. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, confused.

“Seven days, Aziraphale. Seven days, you shall be stripped of your God-given powers.”

A chill passed over Aziraphale, and Crowley obviously experienced something similar, if the way he shivered was anything to go by.

“I... b-but... I’ve never... been...” Aziraphale stuttered, worry raging through his veins. He’d never been without powers before. It wasn’t that he relied that heavily on them, but... that was his connection. That was what made him an angel...

“Yes, Aziraphale. That’s what makes it a trial,” Michael said in a deadpan, and Aziraphale swore he heard Crowley hiss at her condescension.

“Well... if it’s supposed to test me, why not just tell me not to use them? Not much of a test, if I have no choice, is it?” Aziraphale asked, to which Crowley actually giggled.

It was silenced very quickly, however, as Michael glared at him.

“It was the decision of the council,” she said mildly, still staring daggers at Crowley. She held a hand out to Aziraphale, and he could feel the power surging there, in her palm; waiting to take his from him.

He sighed, extending his hand.

Striking like the snake he was, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and yanked it back, boldly stepping forward and placing himself between the two angels.

_“Sssswear it, Archangel,” _he hissed, his face mere centimeters from Michael’s.

“Swear what, demon?” she snapped back, inclining her chin and squaring up with him. Aziraphale was silently thankful that she no longer possessed her dagger, but he knew, deep down, that she didn’t need it to do real damage.

“Swear that you’ll take nothing from him but his powers,” Crowley growled.

Aziraphale felt both shock and admiration in equal measure. For one, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Michael could have betrayed him. With that extended hand, she could have discorporated him, permanently taken his powers, or worse. And the fact that this was Crowley’s immediate thought... it reminded the angel that Crowley’s only damning sin had been his doubt.

Michael sneered, leaning even more into Crowley’s face. “I am the Archangel Michael, and I do not have to justify myself to the filthy likes of y-”

“Not to me, _to Her,” _Crowley demanded. _“Swear it to your God. _If you’re telling the truth, then that won’t be blasphemy, _Michael.” _

_“Our God, _damned creature,” Michael spat.

“Oohhhh, no. No, no. She made it clear a bit over 6000 years ago that she is _not my God anymore. _But she’s yours. So unless you’re a _goddamn liar, _ then _swear!” _ Crowley growled, and though Aziraphale wanted to admonish him for his language, he was immensely proud of him.

Michael stared him down for a long moment, and Crowley met it with intense, unblinking serpent eyes. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whose stare he was more intimidated by. Probably Crowley’s.

“Fine,” Michael quipped brusquely. “If it will put you at ease, _Fallen One, _I swear. I swear on _our God, _the Lord, my creator, alpha and omega, that I will do nothing other than strip this pathetic angel of his powers. For the next seven days. Happy?”

“Hardly,” Crowley snapped, immediately backing off and rejoining Aziraphale by his side. Though it would have been entirely inappropriate timing, Aziraphale briefly considered snogging his beloved demon’s lips off as thanks for so vehemently defending him.

“Well?” Michael sneered, waggling her hand impatiently.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, extending his hand and placing it in Michael’s.

It felt like someone pulled a stopper that had been in place for 6000+ years. Aziraphale felt himself draining—losing power, losing _energy_ at an alarming rate. It felt like he was losing a part of himself—feeling it slip away and unable to hold onto it, no matter how he tried.

What felt like a small eternity really only lasted seconds, and when Michael’s hand released, so did Aziraphale’s every muscle.

With a hearty gasp, he collapsed, but didn’t even make it halfway before Crowley had caught him—long arms held tightly around him. His voice whispered softly right next to Aziraphale’s ear,

“Whoa, whoa, alright angel? Hang on, you’ve got this.”

For Michael, Crowley had only hysterical rage.

_“Must you be so needlessly cruel?!” _he hissed, still holding Aziraphale tightly as he turned his head to look up at the Archangel. “My lot could learn a thing or two from the _bloody Archangel Michael.” _

“Hold your Serpent tongue, demon, or I’ll take more than powers from you. This is his test, for betraying the Great Plan...”

“He bloody well didn’t, and you know it. So unless you’ve got some handwritten note from God herself in your pocket detailing how he betrayed Her plan, and that this is what She wants, then fucking _piss off, mate.” _

Aziraphale didn’t hear if Michael replied, didn’t hear her footsteps as she stormed out of the shop. His ears had begun ringing, his vision spinning with vertigo. He was only vaguely aware that he was being moved—picked up and deposited on the couch.

He focused on gaining control of himself; closing his eyes to fight the vertigo and taking long, deep breaths. Slowly, the side effects began to wane, and the first thing he became aware of was Crowley—collapsed on the floor in front of Aziraphale, his head resting on the angel’s knees as he trembled all over.

“-hate this, I hate it...” Crowley was mumbling, one hand fisted in a death-grip on Aziraphale’s trousers.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, feeling a scratchiness and knowing his voice would sound weak. The fuzzy black and white spots that had cropped up in his vision at the onset of the vertigo began to recede, and he locked onto Crowley’s meek form.

“Hush, love, I’m alright. I’m... well, I feel very strange, but I’m not in pain,” he groaned, stroking through the demon’s hair at the nape of his neck.

Crowley looked up at him, but only met his eyes for a moment before leaping to his feet and hurrying to the counter to retrieve their coffees and the platter of pastries.

“Here. Y-you went through the trouble of getting these...” he handed Aziraphale’s over with a hand shaking so bad, the coffee sloshed inside. “‘S nice, it’s a-a nice... gesture, w-we should...”

Aziraphale huffed, quickly depositing his coffee on the table and grabbing Crowley by the wrist. He pulled him down on the couch next to him, yanking him up against his side and holding him tightly. The demon immediately caved, slotting his head below Aziraphale’s chin, against his collar bone.

Though Crowley was shaking badly, it was just as much for Aziraphale’s benefit—the image was still fresh of his demon restrained against the wall like that, oblivion pressed against his throat.

“Deep breath, Crowley, it’s alright. She’s gone. I... I... come on, let me see,” he said, his own hand shaking as he pushed Crowley back to analyze his throat.

The mark was small but aggravated; a thin charred line of flesh where holy had met unholy and reacted.

_“Oh, God, Crowley, I’m s-so sorry. _She c-could have... oh, she could have taken—”

Crowley stilled, his eyes locked onto Aziraphale’s and brimming with intensity. Aziraphale immediately knew what he was thinking.

“Angel, you... you said...”

“Yes. I know. I know what I said. And I meant every word of it,” he said, breaking their eye contact to reach down and take both of Crowley’s hands in his. “But just thinking about it makes me nauseous. C-can we... just... have some breakfast?”

Crowley smiled sadly, shifting his hands to take Aziraphale’s, and it made the angel feel more anchored than he had since finding Michael in his shop.

“Yeah. Let’s,” the demon said, leaning away and retrieving Aziraphale’s latte and a scone, and handing them to him.

His hands still shaking a bit, he took them gratefully, and sipped at the hot drink, humming in satisfaction as he felt it travel through him, warming his core.

“I got your favorites,” he said quietly, pointing with a single finger to the honey-almond baklava on the platter.

Crowley smiled, not even looking at the treats. “Thanks, angel.”

The silence that fell guaranteed to be heavy and burdened, but to Aziraphale’s combined relief and annoyance, the telephone began to ring.

“Stay. You stay,” Crowley snapped, leaping to his feet and crossing to Aziraphale’s desk, picking up the Bakelite and carrying it, cord and all, across to the couch.

Mentally chastising himself for his still-shaking hands, Aziraphale picked it up, but before he’d even put it to his ear, Penny’s shrill voice was erupting from the earpiece.

“Are you okay?!”

“Er... yes, wh-” he lied.

“I... I felt it again, like I did when you were in the Downs, but it... _God, _it was so much worse. This time I could tell it was you, and it was... I was driving, and I felt... I couldn’t breathe, and I was _terrified, _and I had to pull over... Aziraphale... _I’ve never felt anything like it...” _

Suddenly Aziraphale realized he’d never heard Penny cry before, not even as she stood before Satan and stole a demon from him. And he very much wished he wasn’t now.

“Penny, _Penny, _I’m fine, we’re both fine. We just had a... a celestial visitor who isn’t a fan of Crowley. I... I became a bit distraught, but it’s... nothing happened. We’re fine, please don’t cry.”

He listened for a moment as Penny caught her breath, sniffling before she continued.

“Who... why? Did they threaten him? Why did I feel that fear from you? I swear, Aziraphale... for a second, I thought I was gonna die.”

Aziraphale held his breath for a long moment, fighting the urge to reply with ‘so did I.’

“Yes. She did. But he’s fine, I... er... I...” he trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. _I went full avenging angel? I panicked? I basically admitted to my superior that I love my enemy? _

Luckily, Penny picked it up.

“Aziraphale... would it be intrusive if I stopped by? I just... I still feel... I think I just need to see you. Both of you.”

He would actually desperately welcome the distraction, and he smiled into the receiver, feeling his still-hammering heart begin to calm.

“Oh, not at all, sweetheart. Feel free. Although...” he paused to look at the old grandfather clock, “shouldn’t you be heading to class?”

“Well, for one, s’just boring presentations. And... I don’t think I could concentrate anyway,” she said, obviously trying to make light of it, but her stress coming through in her flat tone.

Aziraphale nodded, glancing to his left at a demon who was absently staring into the wood grain of the coffee table, his expression far-off and distracted.

“Right,” Aziraphale croaked, knowing he shouldn’t support Penny’s decision to skip class, but feeling drained and raw, and aching for her bubbly presence. Not that Crowley wasn’t reassuring, he was. But to have the two of them... it sounded like just the balm he needed to ease the sting of that empty place inside him where his power used to be.

He was trying not to concentrate on it, but... it was like a paper cut; throbbing beneath his skin and constantly reminding him of the absence. It didn’t hurt, he hadn’t lied to Crowley, but he definitely_ felt it_—like he was walking around with one shoe on.

In what felt like hours, but was actually only a few minutes, Penny’s reserved and shy little knock resounded through the book shop. Without thinking, Aziraphale waved a hand to turn the deadbolt and allow her entry.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, feeling like something was pulling at the backs of his eyes. He slammed them shut, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to distract from the now very obvious lack of power.

Crowley made some kind of choked, worried noise, rocketing to his feet to go and unlock the shop door.

Aziraphale could hear Crowley and Penny speaking as he let her in, but it was garbled behind the weak ringing in his ears.

“Aziraphale!” Penny said worriedly, and when he opened his eyes, he found her kneeling in front of him, her hands resting on his knees as she stared at him worriedly. “Are you okay?”

He inhaled, feeling more and more drained by the minute—like, at any moment, he might keel over.

“I th-thought I was, but... it’s getting worse...” he said, the weight of his latte in his hand suddenly feeling like a copy of Artamene ou la Grand Cyrus. He leaned around Penny, depositing it on the coffee table and nearly careening forward onto it as his head swam with the motion.

Crowley was instantly at his side on the couch, one hand holding his upper arm and the other rubbing soothingly up and down his back.

“What’s getting worse?” Penny asked worriedly.

“Michael took his powers away,” Crowley quipped, his short tone clearly aimed at Michael and not Penny.

“What?!” Penny yelped, and Aziraphale groaned at the volume. He was feeling chilled, but also incredibly weak. He’d seen humans pass out from low blood sugar, or the sight of blood, and he wondered briefly if this was what it felt like.

“Not permanently,” Crowley continued, his hand around Aziraphale’s arm tightening slightly. “Seven days. But he’s never been without them before. I’m sure it’s... not pleasant.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale agreed, his stomach suddenly feeling as though it might turn. He closed his eyes, but the vertigo that hit him when he did made him certain he was going to vomit.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, covering his mouth with a hand. “Can I just... lie down for a moment?”

Before he’d even finished the query, Crowley was on his feet, holding Aziraphale’s shoulders and lowering him sideways onto the couch. It didn’t much help with the nausea, but he was comforted by the sound of a fire erupting, and the weight of one of his knitted blankets being thrown over him. He made a mental note to kiss his wonderful, doting demon later, in thanks. But for now, he let himself drift off to sleep.


	48. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature, for violence
> 
> I don't like spoiling things, but I want y'all to know what you're getting into, especially since it's something some people actively avoid in fics. So WARNING! Temporary character death! It's a dream, but it is rough. I actually made myself cry writing it. So if you don't think you can handle that, skip down about a third of the way, until the consistent italics end. Take care of yourselves, my lovely readers.

_Aziraphale awoke feeling ragged and raw—like his every nerve had been dragged against a metaphysical piece of sandpaper. His nap had been anything but restful; in fact, he felt more drained now than he had beforehand, and he groaned as he sat up on the couch. _

_Crowley was sitting in Aziraphale’s chair, his long legs bent and pulled up against his chest. He scrambled as soon as he noticed Aziraphale’s movement, becoming a blur of flailing, lanky limbs as he rocketed from the chair and knelt on the floor in front of the couch, taking the angel’s hands in his. _

_“Feel alright, angel?” he asked worriedly, his voice sounding pulled like a tightrope ready to snap. “C-can I get you anything? Tea? Cocoa? Something stronger? I could...” _

_“No, no, my dear. I’m fine. Well... not fine, but... I don’t need anything. Except that which I already have,” he amended, squeezing Crowley’s hands. _

_“This doesn’t mean you’re mortal, does it?” _

_Penny’s voice came from the front room, and she soon appeared in the doorway, a hefty handful of books piled in her arms. _

_“No... well... actually... I don’t know, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said, swallowing and finding his throat dry at the thought. He looked back down at Crowley, whose features were so blatantly worried that the angel felt a pang of pity. _

_“But it’s only for seven days. Aging by seven days doesn’t exactly worry me. Erm... Crowley, I... I could actually use... some water...” _

_The demon tripped on the tangle of his legs in his hurry to comply, and Aziraphale used the opportunity to grab Crowley’s sleeve and pull him back, gently pressing their foreheads together. _

_“I’m really alright, dear. I feel weak, but nothing detrimental. Please don’t fret. I’ll be fine.” _

_Crowley let out a shaking breath, nodding slightly against him. He was slower this time as he pulled away and walked to the cupboard to retrieve a glass and filled it from the tap. He returned, but took a seat next to Aziraphale on the couch, so close that his entire side was pressed to Aziraphale’s. It was actually very reassuring—like a heavy blanket or warm honey chamomile tea. _

_“You don’t mind, do you?” Penny asked quietly, lowering to the floor in front of the fire and setting down the handful of books. _

_Aziraphale sipped at his water, feeling it sting his dry throat on the way down. “As long as you don’t decide to buy any of them, no,” he joked, and Crowley released a laugh that was far too high-pitched and frantic to be natural. Aziraphale reached over and unabashedly took the demon’s hand, simply holding it. _

_There was so much hanging in the air, so much that needed to be said, but it seemed no one wanted to be the one to say it. But, as Aziraphale simply took a series of deep, calming breaths to quell his remaining dizziness, he found that he didn’t mind it—the gentle, rhythmic pop of the fire, the easy, familiar _swish _of pages as Penny turned them. And best of all, Crowley pressed to his side, head now resting on his shoulder, hand held tightly in his. _

_The first thing that tipped Aziraphale off that something was wrong was the spike of divinity in the air—it was heavy and suffocating, like someone had sucked all the oxygen from the shop. The second was the hairs on Crowley’s arm, rising like hackles. _

_“What—“ Aziraphale started to say, but was cut off by the shop door slamming open so hard the inlaid glass shattered. _

_And walking through the threshold, pristine white boots crunching on the bits of broken glass, was the Archangel Michael, looking positively ferocious as her eyes glowed bright white. _

_All three shop inhabitants bolted to their feet, different shouted inquiries aimed at the intruding angel. _

_She sneered, striding with purpose into the back room and, voice booming, declared, “IT SEEMS I’VE FORGOTTEN SOMETHING.” _

_She walked to the counter, where her silver and gold-handled dagger was still protruding from the wood countertop. She yanked it out, slowly turning to face the angel, demon, and witch. _

_“You,” she whispered, voice like a growling wildcat, dagger pointed accusingly at Penny. “Human. You will walk out of this establishment with no memory of these two ingrates. They are nothing to you, and you shan’t even recall their vile faces. Go!” _

_With dawning horror, Aziraphale watched as the miracle-tinted words sank in, causing Penelope; beautiful, kind, wondrous Penelope to go slack-featured, dropping her book and walking, zombie-esque, to the still-open door. _

_“What is the meaning... _you can’t just...”_ Aziraphale began, but was interrupted. _

“AND YOU, AZIRAPHALE. Come here.”

_To his complete horror, Aziraphale’s feet began to move against his will, taking him toward the Archangel. _

_“Nonono,_ angel!”_ Crowley gasped, still holding Aziraphale’s hand tightly and following. _

“You stay where you are, demon filth,” _Michael commanded, raising the blade to point it at Crowley and making Aziraphale’s heart race with worry. Regretfully, he dropped the demon’s hand, if only to keep him away from the holy weapon. _

_Crowley whimpered as he watched their hands fall apart, but he halted in his trajectory forward. _

_“You really thought all I would do was take your powers, Aziraphale?” Michael sneered as Aziraphale came to a stop at her side, turning to face Crowley. _

_“Please Michael, whatever this is, whatever you want, take it from me, just _please don—“

_“Silence, Principality. I’ll have no more of your lying, lecherous words. On your knees.” _

_Aziraphale’s lips snapped closed against his will, and his legs bent to send his knees down painfully onto the hardwood. He tried to speak, to yell, to plead, but only managed to murmur against his forced-closed lips. _

_Crowley, for his part, took up the incredulous mantle, “What in the bloody Heaven do you—“_

_Michael snarled, soaring forward, dagger bared. Aziraphale tried to cry out, tried to move, tried _anything, _but found himself bound and silenced on the spot. _

_Crowley, ever the serpent, recoiled and bent, easily avoiding the blade and using a swift uppercut to shove Michael’s arm skyward. She yelped, but didn’t drop the dagger; instead using the opportunity to catch Crowley off-guard with her other hand, which she slammed against his chest, sending him sprawling on his back in front of the couch. _

_Aziraphale pulled and strained at the miraculous bonds holding him in place, but they didn’t budge an inch. He again tried to plead with Michael for mercy, but he couldn’t open his lips, and without his powers, couldn’t throw his words directly into her mind. All he could do was drown in them himself. _

Please, Michael, please... don’t do this. If you must punish me, punish me! He’s done nothing wrong, nothing but love me! Unconditionally, eternally, and I’ve never told him... I’ve never let him know, I’ve never said what is so obvious. He doesn’t deserve this, but I do! Oh, God, I do! For forsaking his love, for taking it for granted. Please, if you must draw blood, draw mine! If you must end a life, take mine! But don’t hurt him, please!

_Ever oblivious to Aziraphale’s words, Michael leapt on top of the downed demon, gripping his throat hard a pinning him. _

_Crowley growled, low and demonic, his sleek black claws extending from his fingertips and slicing at Michael’s forearm. She didn’t even react—simply smiling as her own mangled blood, flesh, and muscle spilled from her destroyed limb, soaking Crowley’s clothes and face. _

_“Go ahead, Fallen One, do your worst. But know this... _you were never good enough. Not for Heaven, not for him. _You were a waste of ethereal grace, and I am going to correct that mistake. Good riddance, _demon.”

_Aziraphale screamed against his closed lips as Michael raised the blade high above her, bringing it swiftly down right into Crowley’s heart. _

_The demon’s otherworldly screech was lost to Aziraphale as his entire world crumbled—the bookshop fell away, the Earth fell away, Michael fell away, _Heaven and God fell away. _What remained was only Aziraphale, watching as Crowley stilled before him in a sea of smothering darkness. The one bright light, his beating heart, his centre, his universe... lying there slowly dying. _Really dying.

_He’d thought he’d known what Hell was. What eternal damnation and suffering looked like. He thought he understood pain. But nine rings of anguish held nothing to this; the promise of endless torment meant nothing. As his heart ripped away and left a gaping hole where everything he used to be once resided... he realized absolutely nothing was worse than this. _

_“There. Problem solved,” Michael said coldly, snapping Aziraphale back. He could feel himself hyperventilating, lips still meekly struggling to scream, to cry, to speak. _

_“Come along. You’re going home—where you can never again be tempted toward such repulsive creatures,” she continued, snapping and releasing him. _

_He scrambled across the hardwood immediately, leaning over his beloved demon and spitting out the words, _

“No! Nonono, please, my love, don’t go. You can’t, you can’t leave me, you’re all that I am, all that I ever was. I’m incomplete without you, I’m nothing! Please Crowley, I love you so madly, don’t...”

_But Crowley was still and cold, his skin pale and lifeless. His aura was silent and colorless, and his eyes... _

_Those gorgeous, honey-gold eyes, the ones Aziraphale had laid eyes on in a garden that couldn’t hope to compare... _

_They stared, motionless and absent of their stunning sun-like glow, the life completely gone from them. The life... completely gone. _

_He’d never screamed so hard, never felt so empty. He would have welcomed God’s wrath, or even Hell’s. Nothing could hurt worse than this. Even complete oblivion held no candle to the sheer desolation his soul felt, here, holding the weight of Crowley’s body in his arms. _

_“Oh don’t be so dramatic, Aziraphale,” Michael drawled, her glow beginning to illuminate the entire bookshop, casting sharp shadows over Crowley’s high cheekbones that would never again crinkle with a smile. His shining auburn locks that Aziraphale would never caress a hand through. His slack lips that he would never again kiss. His angular fingers, he’d never again hold. _

“It was only a demon.”

***********

“Fuck! _Fuck, shit, bugger, bloody bollocks!” _

Penny looked simultaneously shocked and impressed by Crowley’s outburst, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Watching Aziraphale like that—weak, uncomfortable, _scared_—it made Crowley’s blood boil. And not being able to do anything about it... that hurt worse.

He was useless... bloody useless, in the only regard that mattered; protecting Aziraphale. As a free agent from Hell, he was free to choose his own path forward, and he’d vehemently done it—_ensure no harm comes to my angel. Keep him safe, keep him happy. Never let anyone, be it from Heaven, Hell, or Earth, make him feel less than the splendor he is. And I failed. Less than six months in, and I’ve already bloody failed. _

He began to pace back and forth across the back room, hands gripping painfully into his hair.

“Crowley?” Penny asked softly, but her voice rang out like a gunshot through his frayed nerves, and he flinched.

She sighed, stepping into his path and halting his pacing, her eyes intent and empathetic as they found his. It only served to remind him that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, though, and he turned his head away quickly.

“Here, come here,” Penny instructed, wisely taking the sleeve of his pajama shirt instead of his hand—she likely couldn’t handle the state he was in.

She led him over to the couch, where she released him and knelt next to it, gently taking Aziraphale’s hand. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply as she clearly began to focus on her clairvoyance.

Crowley watched her like a predator, seeking any flinch, any pinched brow, any sign of distress she might glean from his angel. Her expression went a little confused before she opened her eyes and looked up at Crowley.

“He’s okay, Crowley, really. Doesn’t feel like he usually does, and it’s probably very jarring for him. But he’s _not in pain. Okay?” _

It wasn’t very reassuring. Aziraphale was the sun he revolved around, and to know that his light was dim wasn’t remotely encouraging.

Penny sighed, clearly seeing that her words had done nothing.

“Alright. Come here, sit down,” she instructed softly, leading Crowley over to the small dining table and distributing him into the creaky wooden chair. She flitted about behind him at the counter, but he couldn’t be bothered to follow her. His eyes were only for the angel, whose chest was rising and falling rather quickly in his sleep.

_Sleeping. _He’d only ever slept a handful of times, and Crowley didn’t usually get to watch him do it—having typically fallen asleep before him and woken after. Crowley was fairly certain that restful sleep didn’t involve those quick breaths, the pained expression. He would do quite literally anything to make his angel happy again, but he _couldn’t. _He was literally incapable, and that was the worst part.

“Chin up, let me see this,” Penny cooed, suddenly right next to him, seated in the other dining chair, and making Crowley startle so bad he nearly tumbled off the back of his own chair. She gave him a pitying look, but didn’t comment as she raised a washcloth to the throbbing mark on his neck.

He bristled, leaning away from her but not so much that she couldn’t reach. Of the two of them, Aziraphale needed the tending-to.

“Really, Penny, it’s nothing, I don’t nee-“

Apparently he’d underestimated the damage he’d taken, because his throat nearly closed up as the cool cloth touched the heated mark, making it sear down into his chest and up to the backs of his eyes.

“Hush, you,” she responded in a near-whisper, holding the cloth still against his charred flesh and letting him acclimate to the sensation. “It’s what he’d be doing.”

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t argue with that logic.

“So... what did you do to provoke her?” she asked lightheartedly.

“I resent that!” he clapped back, trying to give her a playful smile but only managing a cringe as she began wiping scabbed skin and dried blood from the mark on his neck. He sighed, looking away from her as the momentary upturn in mood died as rapidly as it had arrived.

“Nothing. Just walked in. Michael, er... Michael isn’t a fan. She’s the loudest voice on the council, and likely the one who came up with these ruddy trials. Don’t remember much of my time in Heaven, or the war that damned me, but... I remember Michael. Ruthless, that one. Personally delivered more than half of Hell’s population. Suppose I surprised her, but... I thought by now they understood what we mean to each other. But... I guess they don’t. That, or... they don’t care.”

Crowley knew which one it was.

Penny suddenly pulled away, disappearing behind him and reappearing with his coffee and the baklava that had still been on the platter. He began nodding no, the mere thought of food making his stomach uneasy, but, ever the mom-friend, Penny hushed him again and shoved them forward.

He sighed, picking up the coffee and taking an obligatory sip. He couldn’t deny that the heat chased away the chill that had settled under his skin the minute he heard Michael’s voice.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered as he picked up the baklava and nibbled at it. It was from Aziraphale’s favorite café down the block, and for good reason—their pastries were lighter than air and never drowned in sugar, like so many others. “Trying to distract me so I don’t freak out.”

Penny smiled sweetly. “Is it working?”

He grinned, sipping the coffee again. “No. But valiant effort. For a human, anyway.”

The affectionate look she gave him was overwhelmingly Aziraphale-esque, and he cleared his throat, changing the subject.

“So, you... you felt it? When it happened?” he asked, looking back over at Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” Penny replied, voice catching. “Similar to what happened when you two were at the cottage. But back then, it... it was broad, and generic, and I didn’t even know which one of you it was coming from. It was kind of like... an injection that I could feel—an intrusive emotion I just knew wasn’t mine. But... this time...”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“I can’t describe it. I knew it was him, I could... dunno, _feel him. _As if he was standing right beside me. And it was just... _suffocating. _I’ve never felt such fear in my life. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Which was... not great, as I was driving. But I managed to pull over, and just... these huge sobs came out, and I couldn’t make it stop....”

She paused to look over at the slumbering angel.

“He said... he said it was when Michael did this...” she continued, brushing a thumb next to the mark on Crowley’s neck. “He fell apart, Crowley. He may have held it together physically, but... I felt it.”

Suddenly feeling incredibly nauseous, Crowley set down his coffee and baklava, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know. He didn’t feel _worthy_ of the angel’s feelings but... he knew. And, if situations had been reversed, and it had been a hellfire blade pressed to Aziraphale’s throat... well... he didn’t even want to think about that.

And a small part of him felt guilty; guilty at having caused the angel to feel such fear. Perhaps if Crowley’d just stayed upstairs when he heard the voices, or stayed at his own flat. Perhaps if they’d never made the bloody arrangement. If he hadn’t slithered up to him in Eden. _Hadn’t Fallen to begin with. _

Before he could plummet down that particular spiral, Aziraphale cried out, bolting upright on the couch. Crowley barely had time to stand up before Aziraphale had flung himself against him, hands caging in his face, lips desperately, _passionately_ pressed to Crowley’s.

“Mmmph,” Crowley declared against the angel’s lips, shocked.

Undeterred, Aziraphale pulled away, only to begin pecking quick, whimpered, frantic kisses to Crowley’s lips and cheek. Still dumbfounded by the sudden and very physical show of adoration, Crowley simply stood, still as a statue, his wide eyes finding Penny, whose jaw was attempting to tackle her toes.

It was then that Aziraphale delivered the final blow, the kryptonite, the knock-out punch. It was mumbled, and obscured by Crowley’s neck, but he heard it just the same.

“I love you, Crowley! I love you so much it _hurts, _and I refuse to let a single second more tick by in which you aren’t completely certain of this simple fact. In which any doubt exists. I refuse! I refuse! I love you, Crowley, please, please don’t... _please don’t go...” _  
There was something absolutely desolate about the angel’s tone, and Crowley couldn’t help but push him back so that he could look him in the eyes.

The angel softened, brushing Crowley’s hair back and _staring_ at his eyes.

“Don’t... go... where would I go, angel?” Crowley asked, befuddled.

“I... it was...” Aziraphale gasped, his eyes going glassy as they meandered past Crowley’s shoulder to the countertop. Crowley turned, finding nothing but the jagged hole Michael’s dagger had left.

“Oh...” Aziraphale mumbled, but didn’t remove his hands from Crowley’s temples. “It must have been... _oh, Crowley, _how... how do you go on sleeping when... when...”

Crowley’s brain was just now catching up to the love declaration, and like a snake to prey, was simply circling it and preparing to strike.

_He loves me. He’s_ in love_ with me. And he said it. Out loud. In front of someone. _

But Aziraphale had asked a question—a fact that was becoming more and more obvious as both Penny and Aziraphale stared silently at him.

“Oh, er... yeah, you mean... nightmares?”

Aziraphale nodded haltingly, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallowed some unseen dread.

“Easy, that. One good dream is worth a thousand bad ones,” Crowley said, his brain officially caught up and beginning to wonder if _he_ was dreaming. “Am I...”

“No, Crowley. You’re not. And _I love you. _And definitely not in the way I’m supposed to.”

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale, I’m fairly certain there _is no way_ that you’re supposed to,” Crowley replied with a mischievous grin.

Aziraphale softened, his thumb caressing through the hair at Crowley’s temple.

“Cheek,” Aziraphale tutted, in the tone of one delivering wedding vows. Just for good measure, Aziraphale leaned in and placed a chaste kiss against Crowley’s lips. And, as if he just couldn’t wait to clarify, the angel began speaking before they’d even broken apart.

“Mmmmffnyou know what I meant, you wily serpent. I don’t love you in the way I love Earth, and humanity, and the cream cakes at the Ritz. Not in the way I’m told to, in the way all angels feel a constant, humming, low-grade love for all things. Mine is specific, and intense, and _pointed. _Pointed at _you.” _

Crowley felt like he’d had a bucket of holy water dumped on him, à la Ligur. It was overwhelming, and all-consuming, and surrounding him with the warm and cuddlies that he’d been steering well clear of for 6000+ years. It was like setting ones hand on a hot burner, enjoying it, but suddenly remembering that you _shouldn’t. _

He didn’t want to, but he _had to_—pulling away and, in the absence of his sunglasses, burying his face in both hands.

“M’sorry, I can’t… _I can’t...” _he mumbled against his palms. So much could follow that statement; I can’t accept this, I can’t handle it, I absolutely can’t say it back, even though I’m _dying to. _Those words have been routinely and savagely _beaten_ out of me, and I half believe they’d burn my tongue on the way out. Not that it wouldn’t be worth it, it would, but... it’s just too much, it’s all _too much, _and you dumped it on me in the middle of your bookshop, after a traumatizing visit from your boss, and in front of a _human, _no less, you bastard!

“It’s alright, my dear. I just needed you to know, right this instant. That’s all. Shall we finish our coffee and breakfast? Penny, can I make you anything?”

Luckily, Penny was just as flabbergasted as Crowley, her jaw hanging open comically, and her eyes so wide, they appeared ready to fall out of her skull.

“Eeeeerrrrr... so... you’re, erm... kissing now?” she asked, and Crowley was glad his hands had only just begun to slide off of his face, because Penny gave him a suggestive eyebrow twitch, and he slapped his face back into his hands as it warmed with a convulsive blush.

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to put on a smug/proud grin (_Smoud? _thought Crowley. _Prug? _).  
“Oh, _oh yes,” _he replied, capping it off with a shoulder wiggle that, despite the angel currently possessing no powers, did a valiant job of attempting to turn Crowley’s knees into pudding. “I would have thought he’d tell you. Yes, when was that first one?” he asked conversationally.

Crowley made an incoherent noise.

_“Oh, yes! _It was the weekend before Christmas. Right after you left, actually!” Aziraphale said to Penny.

“R-right,” Penny stuttered. Still hiding his face, Crowley felt her hand squeeze his bicep, before she continued, “I think we’re embarrassing him.”

“Indeed, we are,” Aziraphale replied warmly, and Crowley felt the angel’s hand on his other arm.

It was a brand new kind of torture, being caged in like that, not by pain or fear, but by reassurance, caring, and, he shuddered you think,_ love. _Something deep down was cringing, shying away, dying to whip around and search for the demon that had been sent to punish him,_ maim and torture him_ just for being in close proximity to such positive emotions.

Heart beginning to race with what he knew was irrational panic, he bolted out from between them, spinning to approach the coffee table, where the pastries and Aziraphale’s coffee, all cold to the touch, were still waiting.

“Yeah, er, we sssshould, erm, breakfast,” he mumbled, knowing his sentence hadn’t made much sense, but also knowing that whatever he might say to correct it would be a worse, likely hiss-filled mess.

He grabbed Aziraphale’s coffee, weaving around the back room like the disoriented snake he was, searching for a microwave he’d known was somewhere in this ruddy book-filled room.

“Microwave?” he asked in a hurry, his head still buzzing with residual worry. “I know you had one, where did you bloody—“

“Just miracle it, my dear,” Aziraphale said, the grin wiping from his features, obviously noticing that his teasing had actually caused a problem. He tried to approach Crowley, but he was pacing so erratically that it was difficult for him to catch up. Which had really been Crowley’s intention. He was feeling as though another touch, especially from Aziraphale, would cause him to curl up into a useless, inarticulate ball of twitchy demon bits.

“No, of course not,” Crowley barked back, rubbing an arm nervously and wishing he had a pair of sunglasses. “If you can’t use your powers, then I’m not either. Same as all the others. Why wouldn’t I? Sssssilly, to even thi-“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, calm but incredibly demanding, finally coming to a stop in Crowley’s path. “I would like clarification on what you just suggested, but I think first we should sit down. Have some breakfast. _Relax.” _

Swallowing hard, Crowley nodded, using the opportunity to take a deep breath, and relenting when Aziraphale gently pulled the coffee from his hand and motioned for the table.

“Well,” Penny said, perching on the armrest of Aziraphale’s chair as the angel took his and Crowley’s coffees and placed them in the microwave under the counter. “In the spirit of confessing things. When I... felt... when I thought...” Penny stuttered.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at her, glad that someone besides him shared the aversion to sentimentality which resulted in an inability to throw a sentence together.

“Dunno what I thought, actually,” Penny went on, fidgeting. “But I knew it wasn’t good. And I, erm, want you both to know that, well... I... I don’t know what I’d do. Without you. And I know that’s weird, as I’m not supposed to know of the existence of either of your lots. But... is what it is, I suppose.”

“Poetic,” Crowley piped with a grin, completely prepared for the weak arm slap he received from Aziraphale.

“That’s very sweet, Penny, thank you. And I...”

The angel paused on his way to the table with their newly-warmed beverages, his face looking suddenly stricken and pale. He attempted to hide it with a quick shake of his head and series of rapid blinks, but Crowley still made a mental note to question him about it later.

“I cherish your presence as well. And... it’s actually a relief to have another human know of us... _know us,” _Aziraphale went on.

“Another?” Penny asked.

“Oh, the antichrist. Adam. As well as the other witch, Anathema. And Newt. Shadwell and Tracy... oh, we’ve been positively dismal of late at remaining hidden, haven’t we?” Aziraphale said, sitting across from Crowley and sliding his drink over. Crowley still wasn’t feeling it, but took it politely anyway.

“The apocalypse’ll do that,” Crowley quipped, feeling the earlier jitters fading away with the easy, comfortable conversation.

“Mmm,” Penny confirmed with a small nod. Crowley had told her a bit about the Little Apocalypse That Couldn’t, at some point, but hadn’t gone into details. Certainly hadn’t mentioned any names.

Aziraphale sighed, twisting in his chair to more definitively face Crowley.

“Now... about the, erm... the _thing_ you said...”

Crowley squirmed, taking a sip from his coffee, not because he wanted it, but because he wanted to occupy his lips while he thought of what to say. The decision had seemed so obvious that he hadn’t even thought of a rationale.

“Look, don’t think too much into it,” he said casually, shrugging. “I went with you for the... the...” he waved a hand in the air wildly, “diligence one. S’only logical that I... do... this... as well.”

As he said it aloud, it was suddenly obvious that it, in fact, wasn’t.

“Oh, _logical, _is it?” Aziraphale asked, slightly smug, before sipping at his latte with raised brows.

The frayed nerves returned with a vengeance, and Crowley, unfortunately, caved to them.

“We-you-jus- oh, _piss off, _Aziraphale. You want me to say it? You _really_ want me to say it?! Even though you _know_ I have trouble saying these things? Even though you _know_ admitting these things makes me bloody _panic, _like I did less than two minutes ago?! Fine, if it’s that important to you, fine. I, Crowley, former demon, current shitshow, am going to comply with every fucking trial Heaven throws at you because I got off easy, and I absolutely _hate_ what they’re putting you through, and I can’t make it stop, can barely even _help you, _and when I do help, I bloody freeze up and choke, making more work for you in the process. So I’m _doing this, _Aziraphale. I’m doing this with you, because it’s all I bloody well _can do.” _

As soon as he’d finished the breathless rant, he knew he’d gone off, and immediately regretted it. Groaning, he shoved his coffee to the side and leaned forward to drop his head roughly against the table.

“Sssssorry,” he mumbled against the wood surface, his voice echoing a bit under the hood his curled body had created. “Carried away.”

Crowley felt the angel’s hand come to rest on his shoulder blade, right where his wing would be, rubbing soothingly back and forth. Crowley felt the strange combined urge to both throw him off, and lean heavily into it.

“Sorry, Crowley. I was only teasing, I—“

“I know,” Crowley mumbled, keeping his head dejectedly on the table. “I know you were. Sssshouldn’t have snapped.”

Silence fell, and Crowley decided that he just couldn’t take it anymore—being the focus of it, knowing that both Penny and Aziraphale were staring at him, likely tossing each other knowing glances.

He bolted upright, grabbing his coffee enthusiastically and yanking it to his lips.

“So. What’re we doing today? Penny skipped class. Might as well make it worthwhile.”


	49. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> Just... 2000 words of pure, unforgiving fluff.

The trio had a bit of an adventure together. Aziraphale decided to introduce Penny to his favorite sushi place in London, and without demonic influence, they actually made it there at the speed limit, and obeying all traffic laws.

Once finished, both angel and demon were mortified to find that neither had thought to bring any physical money, and Penny had to buy their lunch. Crowley almost broke his vow to not use any powers, but Penny barked at him about it being a new world; one in which the lady could pay (Crowley had made a mental note to buy her a nice bottle of wine as thanks anyway).

Afterward, they strolled through St. James Park, again realizing neither had thought to bring any treats for the ducks (one of them always used a small miracle). But it turned out to be a very nice stroll anyway.

And when they’d reached the edge of the park, and Penny declared that she had ignored her responsibilities enough for one day, Crowley found himself alone with a powerless angel.

He wasn’t sure why Penny’s sudden absence made him hyper aware of Aziraphale’s vulnerability, it wasn’t as if Penny could have protected him in any way if the forces of Heaven or Hell showed up, but it did nonetheless. He found that, after she had doled out a round of hugs (that Crowley begrudgingly accepted with only minor grumbling) and disappeared down Birdcage, he was feeling exposed, overprotective, and very, very paranoid.

“Shall we walk back through?” Aziraphale asked, obliviously chipper. He was feeling much better, after having his powers drained, and as long as he didn’t forget and accidentally try to use them, he would stay feeling better. Or so it seemed. Perhaps Aziraphale was putting on a front to keep Crowley from worrying. He wouldn’t put it past the ruddy angel, and Crowley’s outburst back at the shop probably hadn’t helped.

_Barmy git,_ he chastised himself as he motioned for Aziraphale to lead the way.

But he made an effort to relax, at the very least for the angel’s sake. He had enough to worry about, he didn’t need another demonic episode to fret over.

“So,” Crowley began in a hushed tone, eyeing a mischievous-looking duck with a Napoleon complex. “The, er... the nightmare. What was it about?”

Aziraphale made a noise, one that Crowley might hazard to call a wolfish growl.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine,” Crowley added quickly. He’d had his share of bad dreams that he’d had to burn from his own psyche to maintain sanity.

“No, it’s fine,” Aziraphale said, not making eye contact and instead watching as Napoleon finally moved on to more bread-bearing waters.

“It was, er...” the angel began, raising his hands to tummy-height, and twisting his fingers together in a wholly unconscious display of stress. Crowley debated reaching over to take one of those fussy hands, but ultimately decided against. They were out in the open, after all, and as the saying went—angels walk among us.

“Michael, she... she came back. In my dream, I mean. Forgot her dagger...”

Well, that explained why the first thing Aziraphale did, after sucking Crowley’s face off, was to peer with mortification at the counter where the blade had been.

“And she... she just... _went off, _as they say,” Aziraphale said, his voice having raised an octave and become broken. He cleared his throat, and bravely continued. “First, she banished Penny—made her forget the two of us, forget ever having known us. And then she retrieved her dagger, restrained me, and... and...”

Aziraphale stopped walking, turned away from Crowley, and buried his face in his right hand.

_“Andshewentafteryou,” _he barked at high velocity, his hand muffling the words. “You put up a halfway decent fight, I’ll give you that, but it’s... _it’s Michael_ we’re talking about here, not even Lucifer himself managed that particular cage match.”

He paused to take a deep breath, and Crowley used the opportunity to sidle up next to him, leaning against his shoulder in support. Apparently it helped, because the angel released all that pent-up tension in a long, drawn-out sigh.

“She, erm... she stabbed you. In the heart. With the blessed dagger. And waited... made me... _watch,” _he practically choked on the word, “as it slowly killed you. And I couldn’t..._ wasn’t allowed_ to speak, so I couldn’t even... let you hear me; speak those words I knew had been true for so long now. And it was just... you... you di-” he choked again, unable to say the word. _“Ahem. _You never heard me say them. And that was the dagger in _my heart, _dear. That I’d never said it, because I was too... bloody _stupid...” _

“Don’t say that, angel, you’re not—”

“Well, alright then, too _afraid_ to say them, too paranoid, too _brainwashed. _ Pick an adjective.”

Aziraphale was shivering now, in the wake of the nightmare’s memory, and Crowley leaned harder against him, nudging him with an arm.

“So _that’s why_ the... snogging my lips off, and the... _waxing poetic,” _he teased with what he hoped was a genuine grin.

Aziraphale smiled warmly back, looping his arm through Crowley’s and making his entire train of thought derail, taking out an entire village with it.

“Yes, Crowley. That’s—actually, no. That’s... the final straw that had been holding up an entire dam. My dream spurred me to action, but it’s not _why I said it. _I said it because I won’t have you living another minute without _knowing. _I’ve a lot of time to make up for, and I don’t intend to waste it.”

Off on the pond, Napoleon was aggressively chasing other ducks away from his new favorite human—a wee girl with an entire bag of bird seed.

Crowley inhaled, every fiber of his being wishing to say it back, but every nerve fighting it. He remembered the last time he’d said ‘I love you.’ It was roughly 6000 years ago, give or take a few years before time was invented. And it had been followed by the most agonizing, traumatizing experience of his immortal life, which proved exactly one thing—his love hadn’t been enough.

“Az-Aziraphale, I-”

“I know, Crowley. I know,” Aziraphale said, squeezing in even closer. “I know you can’t... or... or have _difficulty...” _

_“So you know that it’s just an inability to speak it, not an inability to_ feel it, _because I promise, that’s all it is, I... I...” _Crowley babbled, that stupid bloody panic returning to start constricting around his throat and rib cage.

_“Yes, of course, Crowley,” _Aziraphale said, turning his head to stare at Crowley, but not pulling their entwined arms apart. “Besides... we’re above such things as words, my dear. We’re ethereal...”

“Occult...”

_“Whatever beings, _and we don’t need something as trivial as words to understand the _truth_ behind them. I am an angel. I _feel it. _And that’s good enough for me.”

With that, the angel quickly ducked his head down to place an innocent kiss to Crowley’s shoulder. Like a shot of adrenaline, it made Crowley’s skin crawl and his heart race, and, in a slightly adjacent reality, his wings flutter.

“Well... that’s alright, then,” Crowley said jokingly, to which Aziraphale nodded in approval.

The week that followed was... a bit of a roller coaster. And while Crowley had expected it to be stressful, and exhausting, and panic-ridden... it really wasn’t.

On Tuesday, they attempted the Ritz... and realized that, without a bit of celestial interference, tables were booked for _days. _So the two of them had bundled up and gone on an adventure, walking around London and questing for little diamonds in the rough—hidden restaurants in hole-in-the-wall locations that were absolutely wonderful. And they’d found a few; places they’d never have happened on or thought to try, if it weren’t for the absence of power.

On Wednesday they went for another walk through St. James’s, but were hit by a downpour halfway through. And, again without the ability to transport themselves back to the Bentley, or even summon up an umbrella, the two of them had run, sopping wet, under the boughs of the largest tree they could find. And, if the angel became sentimental once there, grabbed Crowley’s saturated lapels, slammed him against the tree’s giant trunk, and kissed him soundly, then... no one was the wiser.

On Thursday, they stayed in—Aziraphale unpacking several boxes of books he’d picked up from an estate sale a few months back, and had forgotten to unload. He hummed quietly to himself as he separated by alphabetized author, and book condition. Occasionally, Crowley helped, but mostly he sat in his favorite place on the couch, absently thumbing through his favorite book (_The Last Unicorn, _Peter S. Beagle), but really just watching Aziraphale with barely disguised infatuation.

On Friday, Aziraphale had a bit of a row with a few seedy fellows looking to buy the bookshop off of him. Without his usual methods, he was forced to resort to actually arguing, and it had obviously stressed him when the lads just wouldn’t give up. Figuring that changing shape wasn’t _really_ using his powers, Crowley transformed into the serpent—fifteen feet long, black as night, belly like a river of blood, and hissing like the dickens. He’d slithered from the back room nonchalantly, and that was the end of that.

Saturday saw an influx of customers, which Aziraphale was powerless to dissuade. He’d made _six whole sales, _and was positively downtrodden by the end of it. He’d pattered into the back room, slumped into his chair, and groaned sadly. Pity eating away at him, Crowley made the angel a cup of tea, and left him to sulk.

Sunday... Sunday, Crowley woke with Aziraphale in his Mayfair bed. He hadn’t slept, having grown quite averse to it again, post-nightmare, but he’d finished his round of sulking and snuck in while Crowley dreamed. He’d brought one of his newly-acquired books, and settled in next to Crowley, idly running his hand through his hair. Which probably explained why Crowley hadn’t woken until nearly 1 in the afternoon. But it was fine—Sunday was the Sabbath, after all. So the two of them stayed in bed quite literally all day, rising only around 9pm to fetch some snacks.

All things considered, Crowley decided this trial wasn’t all that bad—he’d actually enjoyed it, playing human with Aziraphale and discovering all the things they could do when they just _tried. _

And on Monday... Michael returned.


	50. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> A lot more fluff. Enjoy it while you can *sweating nervously*. Hopefully y'all don't find this one too boring, but I would honestly watch a 20-episode HGTV mini-series of just Aziraphale and Crowley Queer Eyeing cottages. Enjoy

Crowley felt it seconds before Aziraphale, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickling with fear, but he chalked it up to demonic survival instinct. He was honestly surprised it still worked, with his near-consistent exposure to angelic divinity over the last 6000 years, but perhaps there was something to be said for individuality—like a scent. Where Aziraphale was a sheer, clean cotton, Michael was a hard, lemon Pledge—something supposedly nice-smelling, but too much always made the eyes water and the nose sting.

Crowley only had time to tense where he was curled on the couch, head whipping over to Aziraphale’s desk, where the angel was sat cataloguing his new arrivals, before Aziraphale stiffened, dropping the pen he’d been using.

“Stay,” Aziraphale commanded quickly, holding out a placating hand toward Crowley that made him immediately want to snap back that he wasn’t a bloody dog. “She’s likely just here to restore my powers, it’ll all be very succinct and business-like. Just... stay where you are. Maybe... maybe she won’t even notice you’re there!” he finished with a forced grin.

“Mmm, right,” Crowley barked, deciding to follow the angel’s advice, but only because he was comfy.

Aziraphale stood from his desk, worrying at the bottom hem of his waistcoat, and before he’d even made it three steps, the Archangel Michael was striding with purpose into the back room.

She greeted Aziraphale curtly, her eyes snapping over to Crowley immediately and making him feel like a pup in a kennel. He readjusted on the couch, but intentionally held her gaze like a hawk.

“You have completed your fourth trial to the council’s satisfaction, Principality...”

“He has a name...” Crowley mumbled, to which he got an extremely chastising glare from Aziraphale which clearly said _what did I_ just_ say, Crowley?! _

He sniffed, snapping his mouth shut dramatically and perching his chin on a fist. Michael held out her hand, and Crowley immediately released a threatening growl, abandoning the pretense of behaving for Aziraphale. He knew Michael would remember.

And remember, she did.

With a put-upon sigh, she dropped her hand to her thigh with a _slap, _rolled her eyes, and turned her head theatrically to look at Crowley.

“I swear _to God, _I will do nothing but restore Aziraphale’s powers,” she stated flatly.

Deciding to push his luck, Crowley gave the archangel a Cheshire grin, complete with a mouthful of pointed shark’s teeth.

Michael and Aziraphale both gave him equally horrified looks, for vastly different reasons. With an unbothered and smug wiggle, Crowley settled himself farther into the couch.

“Ahem,” Michael cleared her throat, barely managing to hide her disgusted shudder, and held her hand out to Aziraphale again.

“Oh!” Aziraphale dithered, hopping forward and shoving his hand out, only to realize he still donned his white cotton inspection gloves.

“Oh... bother...” he gulped, yanking his hand back and plucking at the fingers of the gloves to pull them off. Michael appeared annoyed, but Crowley felt his heart flutter adoringly in his chest. Aziraphale’s chosen curse was very Pooh-like, and, if he’d permit himself to think so, it was damn _cute. _

“Right. There we are,” Aziraphale amended after tossing his gloves onto the desk haphazardly.

He inhaled hard as his hand was clasped in Michael’s, a bright white light emitting from between their palms. His eyes went wide, and he stood straighter, his other hand bunching in his long khaki coat.

Crowley felt the urge to leap to his feet and deliver a hearty slap to the Archangel’s smarmy face, and he probably would have, if not for the hovering memory of Aziraphale’s nightmare. And while he doubted Michael would actually _destroy_ him... he didn’t want to do anything that might traumatize his angel.

So, anxiously, Crowley remained on the couch and watched as Michael withdrew her hand, several lines of blue-white electrical currents sparking between the angels’ palms for a split second.

“Yowza! Smarts...” Aziraphale yelped, taking a half-step back from Michael and waving his hand about as if he’d received a shock.

“Indeed,” Michael replied, bored. “My presence is not required for the next trial, but since I’m already here...”

Aziraphale went quiet, composing himself and returning to a vaguely at-attention stance. It made Crowley reconsider turning down the opportunity to slap that archangel silly.

“Temperance be its name,” Michael began, sounding rehearsed. “As the son of our creator once did, you shall fast. Forty days, and forty nights. Deprive thyself of Earthly... _temptations, _Aziraphale, and prove that you are still able.”

Aziraphale deflated, looking suddenly very sullen, and very disheartened.

“Y-yes, Michael,” he replied, returning his hands to the hem of his velvet waistcoat and worrying at it. It was a tick Crowley had noticed—something Aziraphale did when he wanted to say something, but was worried his words could be construed as ‘bad’ or ‘disobedient.’ It was something Crowley was endeavoring to eliminate from Aziraphale’s repertoire—if he never saw the angel rubbing away at that threadbare velvet in worry again, it would be too soon.

“Start...starting now?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley couldn’t help the fond grin—Aziraphale was clearly hoping for one last hoorah, as it were, before it began. Likely wine, but possibly champagne.

“Yes, Aziraphale,” Michael said sternly. “Starting now.”

Knowingly, she inclined a skeptical eyebrow at him, and he lowered his eyes to the ground, his shoulders falling with them and giving him a chastised-dog look. Crowley had to bite back the protective growl that threatened to bubble up.

Michael nodded in mutely-pleased affirmation, giving Crowley a short, spiteful glare before she did a sharp 180° turn, marching quickly for the door and disappearing from the shop.

Before Aziraphale could slump in defeat, Crowley was on his feet, hands holding the angel’s arms reassuringly.

“It’s fine, Aziraphale. S’just _food, _you hardly _need_ it, and... and I’m sure you’ve gone that long before...”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, looking at Crowley guiltily.

“Really? A-alright, well... I’ll... I’ll... distract you then,” Crowley offered, squeezing the angel’s plush but firm biceps.

“For _forty days?!” _Aziraphale gasped, doubtful.

He was right. While they were immortal, and forty days was the blink of an eye for them... putting effort into being Aziraphale’s full focus for all of them seemed... daunting. Like being placed under a spy glass in the sun, Crowley was bound to burn up.

“Er...” Crowley said eloquently.

“Really, it’s fine, Crowley, you needn’t go through all this jus-”

“OH!” blurted Crowley. “I know! I’ve got just the thing!”

He’d been thinking madly about what he’d want if situations were reversed, and it was so obvious. He spun around, rummaging madly first through the trinkets on the coffee table, then spinning to give Aziraphale’s desk the same treatment.

“My dear, what on Earth-”

“Where is it?” Crowley asked, pulling his glasses off so he could scan the bookshelves with better precision. The question made sense in his head; _box. Little silver snuffbox, the one I gave you. _

“Key. The key, to the...”

He paused as he spun around to face Aziraphale and found him pulling a simple but elegant chain from beneath his button-up, little silver key dangling delicately from it.

“Y-you... you put it... on a-” Crowley stuttered, endlessly endeared.

Aziraphale blushed a bit. “Of course. Wanted it on me at all times. It was a gift, after all.”

Crowley was very glad he didn’t need to breathe, because his heart skipped a few beats.

“Oh. Well, that’s... yeah, good... good thinking, angel. I thought... was thinking, actually, don’t have to. Follow through, I mean. But I... maybe we could, y’know... get away, for a bit. Away from all the sights, and the smells, the temptations. The place is still decorated like a geriatric’s wet dream, so we could... g-go... why are you staring at me like that?”

Aziraphale was wearing his “I’ve just seen something immeasurably cute” face, and it was disarming.

“Yes, Crowley. Yes. Let’s... let’s go. Tear down some silly curtains, paint some walls, reupholster some God-awful furniture. Oh! Excuse the turn-a-phrase,” Aziraphale said guiltily.

“Never,” Crowley said with a sly grin, maneuvering back to stand in front of the angel.

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose in a display of admiration, then tipped Crowley’s chin with a finger and planted a kiss to his lips that started chaste and slow but grew slightly heated. So much so that Crowley, worried about his damn rebellious body, stepped back and caught his breath.

“Mmmm, right. So,” Aziraphale said, stepping to his desk and haphazardly tossing all the books he’d been cataloguing back into the box they arrived in, following them with his notebook and pen. He hocked it up onto a hip, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“R-right now?!” Crowley asked.

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, a little put-out. “Do you have something pressing to attend to here in London?”

_Nothing other than you, angel. _

“Nope. Should we tell Penny?” Crowley asked, spinning and yanking his jacket off the back of the couch where he’d flung it.

“We’ll call her when we get there. Would you like me to ask her to see to your plants?”

“Nah. They know better than to die...”

Aziraphale stopped dead in the foyer, letting out an exasperated gasp which devolved to a scolding_ “Crowley!” _

Crowley growled. “Fine, angel. Have her stop in... once a week.”

Aziraphale wiggled smugly, allowing Crowley to exit the shop before him and turning to lock the door.

“Shit! Wait!” Crowley yelped, diving back inside and running up the stairs to the portal leading to his flat. He bolted through, straight to his bedroom, and the angel-blanket Aziraphale had gifted him. He tucked it under his arm, hurrying back down to join Aziraphale on the stoop of the bookshop.

The angel analyzed the bundle beneath Crowley’s arm as he closed and locked the shop door.

“Really, dear? But you’ll have me. You shouldn’t need it.”

_You get to wear yours around your neck. I can’t. _

“Just in case,” he said, turning to toss the thing into the boot of the Bentley and open Aziraphale’s door for him.

The drive was uncharacteristically pleasant—the closer they got to the South Downs, the sunnier and warmer it got, to the point that both angel and demon rolled their windows down and enjoyed the breeze and country air. Aziraphale didn’t even complain when Crowley cranked up _Don’t Stop Me Now, _and pressed his foot a little harder onto the gas.

And the first thing Crowley did upon stepping foot inside the cottage was to banish the pots and pans, the kettle, the stash of assorted teas, the biscuits... all of it. Anything and everything that could remind the angel of his current trial. Even the coasters on the end tables went, but they were horribly dated gold-rimmed floral chintz, so he didn’t intend to bring them back.

Aziraphale released such a heavy sigh upon entering that Crowley wondered if he’d been holding his breath for the entire drive.

“Alright, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, dropping Aziraphale’s box of books onto the small, round dining table and removing his glasses.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, peering around. “Just... dunno, just... feels like coming home, somehow. I know that’s silly, this place hardly bares the significance that others do, namely the shop, but... but...”

“I get it, angel,” Crowley interrupted softly. “There’s something... momentous about this place. Doesn’t matter that we’ve only been here once.”

He strode across the sitting room to slide open the patio door and let the warm ocean breeze inside. Indulgently, he closed his eyes and simply stood in it.

“Think of it this way,” he continued, inhaling the familiar saltwater scent of the countryside as it mingled with the homely lavender of the cottage. “We were only in Eden once.”

With a smile on their lips, they decided to take stock of what needed discarding, what needed alteration, and what needed to stay.

The previous owners had emptied the place of all the personal bits they wanted—books, movies, records, and some of the artwork on the walls. But they’d left a considerable amount, given that most things were intended for the rental, and they didn’t actually need them; the Telly, all the furniture, the gramophone, curtains and duvet sets, and the toiletries in the bathroom.

First and foremost, Aziraphale wanted a library—not as extensive as the shop, obviously, but more than the wall space in the sitting room would allow (Crowley wouldn’t have their living room looking like the shop’s back room).

Aziraphale suggested they get rid of the bathroom (it wasn’t as if either of them actually needed it) and turn it into an extension of the bedroom made just for books, but Crowley shot that down for two reasons, one—they’d need it in case any humans ever stopped by or visited, and two—he enjoyed his hot showers, necessity be damned. Literally.

So, they agreed to the hefty undertaking of tearing down an entire wall and adding a room. It would require either a substantial miracle or a crew of contractors, but they agreed that neither of them minded those options. With Aziraphale’s powers returned, avoiding miracles was no longer on the list of limitations.

But, while they were on that topic, Crowley decided that the patio garden was piddly and pathetic, and he’d like to tear down the picket fence and double its size, if not triple it—to which Aziraphale suggested they close half of it in for a conservatory so Crowley could grow more than just climate-appropriate flora.

Crowley wholeheartedly agreed, not just because hot, humid greenhouses appealed to his more serpentine sensibilities. He then suggested, since it would border the new room addition, that the greenhouse have an entrance from Aziraphale’s library, provided of course that Crowley promised layers of insulation to ensure the humidity would never reach his precious pages.

A real row almost arose when they breached the topic of the kitchen. They agreed that the awful orangey wood stain on the cabinets had to go, as well as the ridiculous yellow laminate countertops. The 70’s has definitely thrown up in here.

It was the backsplash that threw in the proverbial wrench—hand painted farm animals on white tiles that Crowley detested. Aziraphale, on the other hand, simply adored them, saying it added character, and was a sweet reminder of the love the previous inhabitants had put into the place.

Crowley was prepared to go down with this particular ship, knowing that any upgrades toward making the kitchen even remotely trendy would be ruined by those blasted farm animals...

That is until Aziraphale told the story of how he’d stared at them, analyzed every minute detail in the tiles as Crowley had slept fretfully in the other room. The angel felt a kind of... nostalgic attachment to them, to the memory they represented for him.

So, with a groan, Crowley asked if he’d be satisfied with repurposing them into wall art. It wasn’t exactly the kind of decoration he would have chosen for the walls, but when Aziraphale bounced excitedly, clapped twice, and threw his arms around Crowley, well... he would make the sacrifice.

The rest was all rather mundane—beginning with deciding on a motif for the place (which was much more difficult than he’d anticipated, with his own minimalist and modern style in direct conflict with Aziraphale’s Victorian era gauche pomposity). But it turned out there was a middle-of-the-road compromise that worked for both of them in the rural industrial style. The unpolished wood and yellow-gold Edison-style lightbulbs appealed to Aziraphale’s desire for cozy, warm, antique-looking spaces, and the exposed iron piping and dark color scheme was more up Crowley’s alley. After that, it would just be a matter of choosing color palettes for the upholstery and curtains.

So, after a long, meandering, backtracking to-do list was scribbled out in Aziraphale’s notebook, the two of them decided that a nap was in order. Well... that wasn’t entirely true. Crowley made it explicitly clear that they were not starting all of this now, and he was going to have a lie down, with or without Aziraphale. Crowley grabbed his angel-blanket from the box dramatically, flourishing it as he disappeared down the short hall to the bedroom.

As had been intended, the act made Aziraphale jealous of his own Christmas gift, and he huffed as he stomped after Crowley, randomly plucking a book from the box as he went. Never having intended to use it, Crowley tossed the blanket onto the trunk at the end of the bed with a triumphant grin.

The first week was an adventure in logistics—they decided to use a miracle rather than contractors for the extension and conservatory. It was a rather hefty drain on power, but one Aziraphale insisted on making, with his quite recent inability to do anything of the sort. He manifested the bare essentials, so as not to call too much attention to it; four new walls, insulation, doors, and the metal rigging and glass for the conservatory. The rest, Crowley reasoned, they could do by hand. For one, it wouldn’t exhaust them and their powers like miracling it would, and two... if they miracled everything, it would be done by the afternoon, and they’d still have 39 days left in Aziraphale’s trial.

So, for the first time ever, they set to renovating a home. After a mad dash for tools he hadn’t thought to bring (which involved a short trip to the hardware store in town, and running across Liza and Margaret, who were so ecstatic that the two of them had purchased the cottage that they decided to name a few pastries after them at the bakery), Crowley started in on demo.

It came rather easily to him, yanking things off the walls, but this time, he wasn’t doing it in the heat of rage, tearing and destroying. This time, he carefully pried the cabinets from the kitchen walls, the doors from the hinges, and the electrical caps from the outlets, ensuring no harm came to any of them in the process. He spent several days with the cabinets and drawers spread out on a drop cloth on the floor, sanding off that horrid 70’s stain and replacing the brass drawer pulls and cabinet handles with much more palatable black iron ones.

To Crowley’s complete delight, Aziraphale practiced his cursing as he put together book shelves in the new library. He was fairly certain that, at one point, over the low hum of some jazz record or another, he heard Aziraphale work through George Carlin’s seven dirty words, capped off with an accusation that Hell was not located in an adjacent reality, but instead resided in IKEA.

The second week consisted of painting. So. Much. Painting. After laying drop-cloths in every room, lining outlets and corners with painters tape, and going through an obscene amount of color swatches with a very picky angel, Crowley found himself with a newfound respect for interior designers. And overalls, for the first (and last) time ever.

Halfway through painting the sitting room, Crowley turned around to watch as Aziraphale, tongue held between his lips in concentration, painted the base boards. The patio door was open, the gentle breeze helping to mitigate that awful, noxious paint smell. The gramophone had been carefully moved out onto the patio to avoid paint splatters, but was still softly playing some Miles Davis. It was terribly domestic, and Crowley wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But when mischievous ideas sprouted in his head like saplings, he was helpless to do anything but nurture them (he did consider himself a fine horticulturist, after all).

So, sneaking like his life depended on it, he swiped his paint roller through the tray of agreed-upon smoke grey paint and, without another moment’s hesitation, rolled it up Aziraphale’s backside, from bum to neck. The offended dolphin-squeal sound the angel released made the resulting paintbrush slap to the face completely worth it.

The third week consisted of upholstery and curtains. The task of re-upholstering the couch turned out to be too daunting for either of them, even considering a miracle. Plus, Aziraphale found a gorgeous claw foot sofa in deep espresso wood and wine red velvet at the local antiques shop that Crowley actually didn’t hate, so they decided to replace it.

After that, it was a matter of choosing fabrics (Aziraphale advocated for more lace, which Crowley turned his nose up at. “I implore you to tell me why _lace, _a fabric with _holes in it, _is rubbish as _curtain material,” _he’d said grumpily. Aziraphale had then grumbled something about not thinking of that, and maybe if Crowley wasn’t such a slothful creature... but that was where _that_ ended). Again though, it wasn’t difficult to find a compromise they both agreed on, with double-layered curtains of cream linen and burlap; the layers would provide the darkness Crowley sought, and the rustic materials pleased Aziraphale.

Week three saw a couple of exhausted immortals, who had no idea this shit was this much work. They took it easy for a few days; fitting in more naps than usual (for Crowley anyway), watched a few films, and took on the more crafty projects. Crowley carefully removed the animal tiles from the kitchen and glued them together in groups of four, placing them in rustic metal picture frames to be hung around the cottage. Aziraphale utilized the sewing skills he’d picked up from Anathema when he’d made Crowley’s Christmas gift to create throw pillows and a pair of blankets for a small reading nook to be located in a bay window bump-out overlooking the conservatory in the library.

Week four, they got back to work—Crowley repainted the cabinets and doors while Aziraphale sewed the curtains (albeit with another round of impressive curses). Once dried, the cabinets were mounted, and the curtains were hung once sewn. That left the conservatory.

After another quick trip to the hardware store, Crowley set about mixing concrete in a wheelbarrow, leveling out the ground (which started with a shovel and good old manual leg work, but ended with a very frustrated miracle), and pouring. In an act that made Crowley have to blink away affectionate tears, Aziraphale suggested they place a few feathers in the concrete—he’d seen humans make handprints in it when the sidewalks in SoHo were re-laid, and thought it an excellent idea. So, they plucked a single tertiary feather each, and set them in an “X” just to the right of the stairs leading into Aziraphale’s library. They’d pull the feathers out, once the concrete dried, and only the indentation would remain—a reminder that, without the color, there was no difference.

At the beginning of the fifth week, they had no choice but to make a quick trip back to London; Aziraphale needed books to fill his shelves with, they needed a better selection of bedding and towels, and Crowley needed to purchase a massive amount of potting soil, seeds, and greenery.

They stopped first at the book shop, and Crowley marveled at the way Aziraphale lit up at the prospect of choosing which books he would _never sell _(not that he had ever really planned to sell any of the, but this way they would well and truly be _his_—stashed away in his... _their home, _where he would never again have to shoo away a half-interested hipster). Without pause, he immediately (gently) tossed his entire Wilde collection into a cardboard box, followed by Conan Doyle, most of the Poe, his three best copies of the Divine Comedy, followed by assorted selections of Austen, Dickens, the Brontës, Agatha Christie, Joyce, Kipling, Chaucer, Keats, and, of course, Crowley’s copy of _The Last Unicorn. _

He paused with a frown where his Bibles used to be, but immediately lit up when Crowley reminded him that they had tentatively planned to search out new ones. The search was really most of the fun, for Aziraphale, and the acquisition was practically a shot of adrenaline.

After that, they stopped by Aria and, after another minor squabble, purchased a navy and cream bed set and bath towels that would complement the off-white of the linen curtains. Crowley distantly wondered how so much white had made it into their decorative decisions, but... as the saying (sort of) went, happy angel, happy life.

It was the gardening supplies next, and Crowley was already quite familiar with the place, so he sought out exactly what he needed and checked out. He hadn’t bought all seeds, as he wanted something more substantial in there to begin with, and at that point realized that several full-grown ferns, four bags of potting soil, five cardboard boxes full of books, a duvet set, and a nauseating amount of bath towels were not all going to fit in the boot of Bentley.

So, after scoffing with indignation at Aziraphale’s suggestion that they attach a bumper-pulled trailer to the poor Bentley (how dare he, honestly), he simply miracled the more hefty items into the cottage’s living room.

Their purchases complete, they hopped in the car and headed back to the Downs, but Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way Aziraphale looked sadly at the lines of restaurants they were passing, sniffed at that divine scent of fresh-baked bread and seared meats rolling out of a little Italian place.

So, Crowley lit a cigarette. It wasn’t the most elegant of solutions, as Aziraphale sputtered and waved away the smoke with a muttered “really, my dear,” but it took the angel’s mind off of thoughts of his trial, so Crowley would take it as a win.

Crowley used the long, nearly-quiet drive back to think—Aziraphale was doing very well in his trials, but... what happened after? They’d said that these trials were meant to reassure Heaven of his loyalty to them, so... what did they want from it, what did they _gain? _ Because, as he knew well, Heaven was the pinnacle of ulterior motives. They didn’t just want humans to be good for goodness sake, they wanted them to be good to boost their numbers and make them look good. They didn’t want faithful, loyal angels doing their work on Earth because it was right, they wanted it because it kept both humans and angels subjugated under their so-called will. So once these ridiculous trials were complete, what then? Would they wish Aziraphale to go back to the way things were? Sending him on pointless missions to turn humanity toward the light? Perhaps they saw an opportunity, with Crowley no longer working for the opposition, to tip the scales, as it were. But in that case... where did Crowley fit in? Would he go with the angel, help him? He certainly didn’t _want_ to do anything to help the bloody bureaucrats in Heaven, but... he didn’t want to be separated from Aziraphale either, so... he’d have to... which would make him a third-party contractor to those that despised him, those that cast him out, those that decided he wasn’t _worthy. _He hadn’t minded it when the occasional blessing had been part of the Arrangement, because he wasn’t doing it _for them, _he was doing it for _him. _But this... it made his stomach turn...

“Alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked as he stepped from the Bentley and headed for the boot.

“Hm? Oh, oh yeah. Sorry. Thinking,” he said distractedly, popping the boot and helping the angel carry boxes upon boxes into the library.

“About what?” Aziraphale asked as they walked back out to retrieve more books.

“I never did yours,” Crowley said, the train of thought making perfect sense in his head.

“Did... my... what?” Aziraphale asked, confusion clear on his features and making Crowley realize that most of those thought train cars hadn’t made it past the station of his lips.

“Oh, er... your wings. I never did yours, after you did mine. And I’d like to,” he clarified.

A bit taken aback, Aziraphale dropped the box of books a little harder than had obviously been intended, his eyes wide.

“If... if you want,” Crowley amended in a hurry, mentally chastising himself for inviting himself to something so personal. “Y’don’t... _have to, _or anything, just because you did mine doesn’t... doesn’t mean that I’m entitl—”

“Yes, Crowley, of course. I’d be happy to have you... erm... _groom_ my wings,” Aziraphale said with a very warm, very hopeful smile. “But... perhaps tomorrow? After we’ve got all these things sorted...”

Suddenly feeling like he’d asked to strip and give Aziraphale a lap dance, Crowley nodded, hiding his head by grabbing a box and spinning to frantically unload it.

“Yeah, no, course, f’course,” he mumbled, nodding quickly.

Aziraphale’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he wasn’t sure why, but he cringed.

“Thank you for your help, _my dear,” _he said quietly, keeping that hand held gently but firmly on Crowley’s shoulder as they silently shelved books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like it, I designed the floor plan for the cottage in Excel, because I have no life. If you'd like that visual, you can find it on my Tumblr [here](https://bringthekaos.tumblr.com/post/190970507968/you-would-not-believe-what-i-just-spent-12-hours).


	51. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen.

Crowley hadn’t slept that night, excitement, nervousness, and doubt all twirling together in his mind as he lay next to Aziraphale in bed. 

He knew he was oddly quiet the following day, as he pattered about installing metal troughs and hanging planters in the conservatory, but every time he thought of something to say, it just _sounded_ like hollow words one might throw out just to break the silence—‘nice weather, ocean seems calm today, birds are enjoying themselves.’

When night eventually fell, and Crowley was satisfied with his conservatory setup, he passed silently through the library and took a quick, scalding hot shower. It wasn’t that he needed it (he never _needed it_), but he wanted it to focus his mind. He knew from experience that having one’s wings groomed was incredibly visceral, and made you feel small, exposed, and vulnerable in a way that only celestials could be.

But it was also incredible—to trust, beyond measure, and be trusted in return, with something that was so deeply personal. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting anyone that much... anyone other than Aziraphale, that is. And while he hoped the angel felt the same... those tendrils of doubt always crept forward and tortured him.

So, his hair still a moppy mess from the shower, he pattered into the bedroom to find Aziraphale, donning his rarely-used tartan pajamas, his magnificent wings spread out behind him so far they spilled off the other side of the bed. The gramophone had been miraculously moved into the room, and one of the records Aziraphale had grabbed when they stopped by the shop (it sounded like Beethoven) was playing softly from the corner.

“C-comfortable, angel?” Crowley asked, pausing awkwardly halfway to the bed, his fingers itching to touch.

“Oh, yes, very,” Aziraphale said, not appearing nervous, but fidgeting regardless, so it wasn’t immediately clear whether it was with anxiousness or anticipation.

Crowley sighed, winding around to his side of the bed and crawling onto it on his knees, scooting in between those two strong, pearlescent limbs. He settled in on his haunches, unsure how to begin.

“I... I’m gunna start, okay?” he asked, remembering how the angel had warned him before touching, how he’d appreciated it immensely.

Aziraphale nodded, but didn’t respond.

With hands he struggled to still, Crowley gently brought his fingertips to the fluffy down at the juncture of wing and spine.

He supposed Aziraphale’s reaction to that first touch was terribly in-character. While Crowley had jumped, and yelped, and pulled away, Aziraphale straightened, let out a surprised little “oh!”, and then immediately settled into it and pushed back into Crowley’s hands slightly. Like many reactions to first-time experiences, the angel was endearingly open, yet still shocked when it turned out to be something he enjoyed. And then he indulged, like the damn hedonist he was.

“Mmm, that’s nice, Crowley,” he muttered, his shoulders falling as he relaxed.

“Good,” was all Crowley could think to say as he moved in tiny, massaging circles through the down and worked out the old and brittle feathers.

One of Aziraphale’s favorite songs began then (The Tempest), and he sighed comfortably. It helped Crowley to settle, reassured that he wasn’t hurting Aziraphale or bringing him any discomfort, and he developed a rhythm of sorts, working outward from the joints with the grain of the feathers.

“Obviously, demons don’t make a habit of this,” Crowley said quietly, but still causing Aziraphale to startle slightly from his reverie of relaxation. “Do... do angels?”

“Angels, yes,” Aziraphale replied, his dejected tone telling Crowley there was more to it, so he remained silent, raking his nails through the feathers and barely grazing the skin, and watching hungrily as it made Aziraphale shudder.

“Angels in Heaven,” Aziraphale said, his head falling forward slightly. “Only place they’ll allow it. And with my station here on Earth...”

Crowley nodded, knowing Aziraphale would feel it in the spring of the bed. The angel was notoriously shit at grooming his own wings—said it was vanity, or such like. But Crowley was starting to wonder if there was more to it than that.

“And I’ve never really relished the presence of other angels all that much. A few that I’ve enjoyed, over time, but... they’re all just so... so...”

“Douchy?” Crowley offered, to which Aziraphale snorted.

“No, my dear. Well, possibly. Just... out of touch with reality. They don’t understand the struggle, down here on Earth. And I’d like to have faith, like to believe that they could change, that they could be what they say they aspire to be. But that would involve each and every one of them living as I’ve lived, seeing what I’ve seen. Not... not that I think I’m the culmination of all things Heavenly, of course I’m flawed as well, but... I do think that if you’re going to tell people how to live, you should at least _see how people live.” _

Crowley had to pause at the weight of the words, at his angel’s poetic cynicism.

“That’s... very astute, angel,” Crowley said, picking up his movements where he left off and making Aziraphale let out a hum.

“Mmmm, yes, well. That’s why no one’s groomed them. I didn’t make a habit of returning to Hea—”

“Wait, like... _at all?!” _Crowley interjected.

“No my dear, not at all. I didn’t make a habit of returning to Heaven, and when I did, it was more of a... drive-by... situation. Not exactly enough time to find someone you trust that much.”

Crowley soured, realizing that while Heaven touted a line of acceptance and love... Aziraphale really was just as lonely as he was.

Optimum word there, though; _was. _Never again.

“D’you think... maybe that’s why Armageddon failed? To give all of Heaven—maybe even Hell—a second chance to understand humanity?” Crowley asked, migrating into the primaries now and smoothing each one between careful fingers. Again, Aziraphale shuddered, his entire wing convulsing momentarily.

“Sorry,” he peeped. “Felt... good.”

Crowley was glad the angel couldn’t see the blush he felt blossoming up his neck and onto his cheeks, but more pity came with it—that Aziraphale felt the need to apologize for enjoying something.

“Don’t apologize for feeling good, angel. Nothing wrong with being taken care of,” he assured him, punctuating it by working down the next primary.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale continued, answering the earlier question. “Really shouldn’t speculate on _Her_ intention, but... I wouldn’t mind it being mine; to give all other angels the opportunity to know the kind of l-er... _happiness_ I’ve known, to learn what it really is to be _human.” _

“You were going to say love,” Crowley quipped, working out the next primary and drawing another twitch from the angel. “You don’t have to stop yourself anymore. Sure, I may always cringe when I hear it, may never be able to _say it, _but... as you once told me, I don’t want you hiding any part of yourself from me.”

Aziraphale suddenly winched his wing in against his back, pivoting on the bed to face Crowley. He looked like he wanted to say something, but kept stopping himself, his mouth opening and closing.

Crowley sighed, lowering his hands to his lap.

“Angel, I... I want you to feel comfortable, saying anything. I know that you have difficulty saying certain things, just like I do, regarding what you _want. _Heaven has... has systematically _brainwashed you_ into thinking that anything you enjoy, anything you _desire_ is bad, is _sin. _But that’s just not true. Sure, in the biblical sense, loads of things are truly sinful, but... but not every little thing that brings you _pleasure_ is bad! Like this,” he motioned to the angel’s half-groomed wings, “There is _absolutely nothing wrong_ with being pampered by someone who just wants to make you happy. Someone who sees your worth and wants to reflect it _back on you. _‘Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost,’ and all that. Our connection to these bodies may not be as the humans’ are, but... it’s still a body, created in the image of man, and therefore in the image of God. And, if you’ll excuse the very undemonic reasoning here, does not God deserve to be loved, to be cherished? If these corporeal forms are not just fodder for celestials to tread in, but _more_... then does it not stand to reason that they deserve the love and devotion that_ God does?! That God intended?!” _

Aziraphale sat, rigid and unmoving, for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, without warning, he surged forward, crashing his lips into Crowley’s so hard the demon toppled over backward onto the duvet. He didn’t dawdle, didn’t hesitate—instead pushed his lips hard back against Aziraphale’s, gently moving, licking, and sucking. Every kiss was desperate, because of the knowledge that it couldn’t last, that Aziraphale feared the repercussions of every stolen moment of closeness.

But, just as Crowley was expecting the angel to pull back, he moved in closer, leaning over Crowley and caging him in. His hand started at Crowley’s cheek, but quickly began to wander; dragging down the column of Crowley’s throat, over the sharp point of his collar bone, past the mound of his chest, against the dip of his thin stomach. It was when that hand reached the hem of his t-shirt, hiking it up and pressing, flat-palmed, against his angular hip, that Crowley whimpered and pulled back.

Panting hard against Aziraphale’s mouth, he caressed the angel’s hair back.

“A-angel, I... I th-thought you... you said...”

_“I don’t give a damn what I said,” _Aziraphale demanded, leaning in and laying a line of maddeningly light kisses onto Crowley’s jaw and neck.

He swallowed, knowing he had to be sure, but absolutely _dying_ to succumb.

“Angel, pleassse,” he gasped, unable to stop the hiss. “Do you really mean that, or are you just overcome by what I said?

“Because, don’t get me wrong, I really, _really_ don’t want to stop you, but... you said you wanted to wait until after the trials, until they weren’t... _watching so closely. _I don’t want you rushing into anything just because I can be a bit articulate, when I want to be.”

Aziraphale giggled, but went lax where he was pressed against him. He sighed, the hand still splayed on Crowley’s hip curling slightly and causing him to spare a minor miracle to calm his blasted corporation.

“You’re... you’re right, Crowley, this would be rash,” Aziraphale said, his breath ghosting over Crowley’s ear and jugular and making him spare another small miracle. Damned rebellious body.

“I just... sometimes you have such a way with words, and hard as I try not to hear them, I do, _I really do, _and it frightens me, because they make _so much sense. _But if what you say is true, then everything I’ve thought, everything I’ve _believed_ since the beginning has been... well, slightly untrue. Slightly _wrong. _And that’s _terrifying, _but also... oh, Crowley, it’s so _enticing.” _

With that, the angel pulled back to look into Crowley’s uncovered and bare eyes.

“And it both scares and excites me, Crowley, and I-I don’t know how to feel...”

Crowley pulled him close, arms wrapped around his back and brushing downy feathers.

“I know, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, sadness tinting his words. “I’ve been where you are now, listening to someone whose words hypnotize, whose message seems foolproof. But I need you to stop and consider them, because if there is even a _chance_ that I’m mistaken, a sliver of fallacy to my words... then the price you would pay, like the one I paid, is just too high. So wait. Think. Wait. And _choose.” _

Aziraphale swallowed hard, his arms squeezing Crowley once.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said finally. “I was, erm... overcome. Forgive me...”

“Nothing to forgive, Aziraphale, remember that,” Crowley replied, kissing the angel’s blond curls before he pulled back and away. “Now, I’ve not finished your other wing, would you like me to?”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale responded without even a beat. He sat back up, turning away and extending his wings once more. _“I would like that.” _

*******

The following day, Crowley felt like he was floating on a cloud. He’d always thought he’d be the one making first moves, tipping their relationship forward with gentle shoves. That’s what he’d always done.

But apparently, post-apocalypse... Aziraphale was seizing those reins with vigor; he’d been the one to initiate their first kiss (all of their kisses, actually, now that Crowley thought about it), and now he’d done... more.

Crowley could still feel that soft, elegant hand sliding down his body, rucking his shirt up, pressing those perfect heated fingertips to his cool skin. He’d been feeling it nonstop, in fact—so much that he’d woken up in a bit of a... _state, _and hurried to the shower to have a slow, leisurely wank to the thought of it.

He spent all morning in the conservatory, filling troughs and planters with soil, planting seeds, and transplanting full-grown ferns. Aziraphale was in his new reading nook nestled in the bay window overlooking the conservatory, and every time Crowley growled a threat to his plants and guiltily looked over to the window... the angel was pointedly _not reading_ and instead watching Crowley with unabashed infatuation written on his features, clear as day. In fact, Crowley was fairly certain even Cupid would vomit at the intensity.

It was so ridiculous, so utterly and insanely _stupid, _and yet Crowley was soaking it in like it was his specific breed of oxygen. He assumed there was probably something psychological about it—something that explained how Aziraphale was all of the things that had been ripped away from Crowley in his Fall, and he was slowly _filling Crowley back up. _But thinking too much about _why_ he craved the torture of loving Aziraphale promised to be awfully Freudian, so he chalked it up to a masochistic imperative.

He was grinning at that little nugget when he felt it, and the blood drained from his face. _How long has it been? Did I lose count? Is that her? Oh, unmerciful Satan, I don’t want her here... _

Without thinking, he abandoned his spade and planter, rocketed from the conservatory, spread his wings, and in one feather-propelled leap, cleared the cottage and landed hard a few strides from...

Who else, but Michael.

Rage flooded him. This place was for _them_—for running paint rollers up his angel’s ass, for (badly) putting together IKEA furniture, for quiet mornings on the patio, for silent nights huddled together, for grooming wings, for trust, for innocent (and one not-so-innocent) kisses.

“Get out!” Crowley screamed, feeling his claws and fangs extending and his eyes glowing red. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he might have also felt tears. “You can’t just leave us _one thing, _can you?! You’ve gotta take _everything from him! _This place is my sanctuary, _our sanctuary, _and you’re not welcome here! I swear, Michael, I-”

He’d been advancing threateningly on her, and she appeared startled, a hand disappearing in her coat to, no doubt, retrieve her holy dagger.

“Crowley!!”

Suddenly, restraining hands were wrapped tightly around his chest, halting his forward progress and keeping his arms pinned at his sides, claws scraping against his thighs.

“Crowley... _Crowley...” _Aziraphale’s voice was whispering right next to his ear, calm and soothing. “I shall be quite cross with you if you get hurt, so please... _darling, _take a deep breath. Put these away....”

One of Aziraphale’s hands had dropped and was gently grazing Crowley’s knuckles.

“Please. Take a step back. I’ll be fine. Alright?”

Crowley’s every nerve was still firing and making him jittery and just itching to dig his fangs and claws into some lovely angelic Michael meat, but...

_Darling. _

It cooled the boiling blood in Crowley’s veins, calmed the hairs that had stood on end at the back of his neck. He released a rumbling sigh, closing his eyes and concentrating on retracting his claws and fangs. He turned inward, leaning against the angel’s plush curls, inhaling the combined sedating scents of the ocean breeze around them and Aziraphale’s old-fashioned cologne.

“There’s a love,” Aziraphale said sweetly, his other hand rising to cradle the back of Crowley’s head and making him settle even more.

“Mm. Finished?” Michael asked, blasé.

Crowley growled again, but Aziraphale placed a placating hand against his chest and pushed him back. He noticed, as he stepped back, that Aziraphale’s wings were also out, and the shine of the sun off of their newly-primed feathers took Crowley’s breath away. If he’d had any breath to lose.

“She’s just trying to rile you up. Don’t give her the _satisfaction,” _Aziraphale said dryly.

“I _did_ go to the bookshop, but you weren’t there,” Michael said in a monotone, checking her nails dramatically.

Crowley swore steam was coming out of his ears. He wasn’t sure why, but the sight of her, here, in this place he’d come to love, it was _infuriating. _

And why _was she_ here, anyway? She always seemed so bored when her presence was required by these trials, otherwise she sent someone else to do her dirty wo—

“Oh, no,” Crowley breathed, a chill rolling down his spine. Without thinking, he shoved Aziraphale’s hand away from his chest, immediately regretting it when he caught the hurt expression that came over Aziraphale.

Crowley would address it. He’d apologize. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you away. Please understand, I don’t mean to do it. If I had any say in the matter, I’d ensure you never stop touching me. _

But there was something more pressing on his mind as he took another step toward Michael. As expected, her hand went back to her jacket.

“Why _are you here?!” _he hissed, pointing accusingly are her. “You only come when an act of superior power is required. Otherwise you’d have one of your witless poodles come on your behalf. _What do you plan on taking from him this time, Michael?! Haven’t you done enough, isn’t thi-”_

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted again, less calm this time, but still physically reaching up to restrain him as Michael actually pulled the dagger from her jacket.

She clearly didn’t feel threatened, as she was still relaxed enough to stand with her other hand resting casually in her trouser pocket. But she flourished the blade anyway, ensuring the sunlight caught on the blessed steel, briefly blinding Crowley.

“He’s smart, I’ll give him that,” Michael said with a shrug, addressing Aziraphale.

“Say what you’ve come to say, Michael,” Aziraphale snapped in a deadpan. “This serpent can do a fair bit of damage when he’s angry, and I’m half tempted to _let him.” _

Crowley wasn’t sure which part of that sentence he was more charmed by—whether it was the fact Aziraphale knew that, in a fight against Michael, Crowley would be about as useful as a toothpick, but he was talking up his game anyway, or the fact that he was using it to _threaten a fellow angel. _He decided to be equally charmed by both, easing up in his lean against the angel’s restraining hand.

“Threatening a fellow angel,” Michael said, still bored, as she spun the dagger in her hand. “I’ll make a note of that in my report.”

“I wasn’t threatening you Michael, I was making an observation. If I were threatening you, _you’d know it,” _Aziraphale responded matter-of-factly, and Crowley felt like his heart was doing backflips. He tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it.

“Hm,” Michael said, finally deciding to stop showing off, and sheathing the dagger. “Well, the demon is correct. My presence is required for the next trial. Your test of temperance is complete. And I’m honestly surprised you did it on the first go.”

“That-you mean-_there was another option?!” _Aziraphale spluttered.

“Well, yes, of course. You weren’t _incapable_ of indulging in food and drink, just disallowed. I expected you to fail a few times, start the forty days over again,” Michael quipped.

“Well... I... didn’t know that was an option, so I... suppose that’s... good,” Aziraphale said, tossing Crowley a glance that playfully said ‘if I’d known that, I definitely would have failed once. Or four times.’

Crowley grinned, stealthily raising a hand to Aziraphale’s back and rubbing it twice in support. What he didn’t say was ‘I’d have been fine with that. More time we could have spent here, together.’

“So,” Aziraphale said, appearing to have taken courage from Crowley’s closeness. “What’s the next one, then? Get on with it.”

Michael straightened, taking a step forward and, as she always did, began reciting the ruddy bible verses that accompanied the tests.

“Humility. 1 John 2:6. Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.”

At this, Michael actually appeared to balk, her face going a bit pale and apprehensive.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, tetchy.

Michael blinked rapidly, licking her lips and swallowing convulsively, and it made Crowley’s blood go cold... well, _colder. _Anything that made Michael uncomfortable to say guaranteed to be bad.

She inhaled hard, steeling herself and looking Aziraphale in the eyes as she blurted,

“Your wings. You are to give up your wings fo-”

_“What?!” _

_“WHAT?!” _Crowley and Aziraphale both yelled at the same time.

Wings were personal, wings were _sacred. _Wings were given to them _by God_ when She gave them form. They were a _part_ of an angel, integral to their entire identity. They used their wings to gain access to Heaven, and they could _feel God’s presence_ in them (angels could, anyway). To lose them was to lose a part of oneself, a part of one’s identity, a part of God’s love. It was tantamount to Falling, except without the whole burning bit.

_“No! Nononono,” _ Aziraphale gasped, backing away from Michael and beginning to hyperventilate. He shook his head furiously, his skin gone very pale and his hands trembling.

Crowley would never have thought to turn his back on Michael, especially since his wings were still out and she could irreparably hurt him. But Aziraphale was on the verge of full-on panic, and Crowley had to do something. After all... he knew, intimately, what this felt like.

“Hey, angel, come on, come here,” he said quickly, swooping in and wrapping his arms around him. From behind him, he heard the blade drawn again and briefly wondered if Michael thought he was hurting Aziraphale.

“This isn’t... no, this isn’t fair, it’s not... you can’t... take a _piece of me, _that’s... that’s not...” Aziraphale was mumbling, small and heartbroken.

His entire body was shaking now, as were his pristine, beautiful wings. Crowley pulled him in as tightly as he could, probably too tight, but he remembered how this had felt.

He remembered feeling like he’d been ripped to shreds, like everything he was had been torn asunder. Like it was more than just his feathers on fire, but his _soul. _He remembered the rage and the doubt and the fear—feeling like something that had always been _yours and yours alone _was suddenly _not. _He remembered the hole in his heart, the weight on his chest, the desperation for someone, _anyone_ to hold him together, because he was _shattering. _

He clung to Aziraphale—didn’t give a damn that Michael was still there, didn’t give a damn what she might think. He held his angel together, because he needed him to.

“How long,” Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s plush hair. Aziraphale flinched, but, deep down, Crowley knew he was afraid of the answer, not the question.

When Michael didn’t answer, Crowley spun, snarling as he faced her, but kept Aziraphale pulled close against his side. He could feel the angel gripping his shirt in a tight fist.

“I said _how long, _” Crowley growled again. “Because if this is permanent, then you’re about to have a fight on your hands. And Hell may not come to _my aid, _but they’ll _certainly_ show up for _your destruction.” _

Michael sneered, pointing the dagger at Crowley.

“It’s not permanent, but your position has been noted,” she said, finally spinning the dagger around to sheath it once more.

“One year,” she said, a hint of pity in her voice.

“A-_a year?!” _Aziraphale gasped, his knees wobbling and his grip on Crowley tightening.

“Y-yes, Aziraphale. I know this may seem harsh...”

“You have no idea what it seems like!” Crowley bellowed, ensuring his hand around Aziraphale’s waist was sturdy. “Testing his loyalty is one thing, _Michael, _but what does _this prove, huh? _It shows your angel that not even his body is his own. It shows him that God’s love is conditional, that it can easily be taken back. This isn’t a test, this isn’t a _trial. _This is cruelty, plain and simple. And I hope you think of that when you return to Heaven to congratulate yourself on a _job well done. _You won’t have accomplished anything the council set out to accomplish. You’ll have given an angel proof that his doubts were bloody well _founded.” _

All was silent for a very long time. Only the wind dared move, and even that was gentler than it had been only moments ago.

Michael shifted her weight from one pristine white boot to the other, actually appearing slightly contrite.

“I... I cannot disobey the will of the council,” she said, her voice less commanding.  


“So _that’s the only reason then? _Because the _council wills it? _Not because it’s necessary, not because it will prove anything? But because a couple of angels _ssssay so?” _Crowley hissed, extricating himself from Aziraphale and stomping forward to stand eye-to-eye with Michael.

“If this is merely mandated by a council decision, then you can’t know if it’s what _She wants. _And you would be completely justified in making _your own call; _decide to have _mercy. _Mercy, Michael, _please. _Show your own kin mercy, _for Heaven’s sake!” _

Michael looked up at him, and for the first time, it wasn’t with fear, or hatred, or rage. For a moment, it understood.

And then, like a flash of divine fury, the understanding was gone.

“Step away from me, devil. I’ll not have you spitting your venomous lies at _me.” _

That was it, then. He’d had one shot to convince Michael, and he _failed. _He didn’t feel anger, or even sadness. He just felt numb and hopeless.

“C-Crowley, it’s... it’s fine, don’t... don’t fret over me. We knew this w-would be difficult. I’ll... I’ll be... I can handle it,” Aziraphale said, suddenly right beside Crowley, hand on his arm.

With monumental effort, Crowley backed away, leaving the two angels together.

“Turn round, please,” Michael said, her usual flat, unkind tone returned.

Aziraphale nodded dejectedly, turning his back on the archangel. It left him facing Crowley, who launched forward again, taking the angel’s hands in his.

_‘I’ve got you,’ _he mouthed, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands to reassure him.  


Aziraphale nodded, but yelped as Michael stepped forward. Crowley couldn’t see the archangel’s hands, but assumed they had risen to rest at the joints.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” Michael said quietly, and before Crowley could snap back “no you’re not,” a blinding white light flashed so brilliantly over them that everything disappeared for a moment.

Crowley blinked away the residual light flaring in his eyes like a photo flash, shaking his head dizzily. He hadn’t even considered that such a large use of angelic power could hurt him, but it wouldn’t have been enough to make him abandon Aziraphale, anyway.

When his sight began to return to normal, he found Aziraphale... beautiful, kind, wondrous Aziraphale, in tears as he clung desperately, painfully to Crowley’s hands. And behind him, where his flawless, cloud-soft wings had been only a moment ago... was only Michael.

One hand abandoned Crowley’s, and flew to his mouth in an attempt to buffer the heart-wrenching sob that escaped, and Crowley’s heart broke. He did all he could to keep it together—taking Aziraphale back into his arms, clutching at him with inhuman strength, but it didn’t help.

“So let me get this straight,” he growled, not threatening, but harsh. “You think that he has strayed—needs to prove his loyalty with the completion of these trials. And you think _I tempted him to all of it. _You think I’m this sinister, vile creature only out to tempt and destroy him.”

Michael didn’t answer, only stared intensely back at him.

“And you took away the one thing he could use to get back to you, the one thing that would bring him back to _God. _You stripped him of his lifeline, his pulpit, his bedrock, all while knowing you’d be leaving him defenseless with _a demon. _So _which of us is the monster, Michael?” _

He didn’t give her a chance to respond, didn’t stick around to explain that, if this had been any other demon she abandoned Aziraphale to, it would have meant his complete and utter destruction. Didn’t explain how this _monster_ loved Aziraphale more deeply than any of them, possibly even bloody God herself did, and would _never_ hurt him.  


He simply wrapped an arm around his angel, supporting his whole weight as he led him, stumbling, back toward their cottage. _Their home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... everyone back aboard the angst train, *toot toot*.  
Seriously. It's gunna get pretty dark for a few chapters, with as much comfort as is possible, but fair warning... it's not always possible.  
But I promise, there's a happy ending. Somewhere. Waaaaaaay off in the distance.


	52. The Trials of Aziraphale, part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature, most likely. Explanation below.
> 
> I am SO sorry this took me so long, but  
1.) It is a MONSTER. 17,000+ words. I'm sorry for that too, but all of this needed to stay together.  
2.) The subject matter was difficult for me. **TW:** violation of bodily autonomy. It's not sexual in any way, but the trauma Aziraphale experiences is very intensely described. So if this is a trigger for you, best skip it.

***March***

Crowley gently lay a desperately sobbing Aziraphale down on the bed. He’d never seen him like this. He’d seen him _cry,_ of course; the Flood, during the plagues in Egypt, after the crucifixion, during countless cruel wars.

But he’d never seen _this—_his whole body shaking with it, his breaths long and labored, cries and shouts of anguish mingling with gulps of air.

Crowley wanted to know how they could stand it, Heaven. How could they hear this, how could they _listen_ to an angel’s heartbreak and _do nothing._ Because it burned Crowley’s heart like no blessed blade ever could.

He hurried onto the bed opposite his angel, pushing in close and taking his shaking hands in his own.

_“What do you need, angel?” _he asked, his voice struggling around a frog in his throat. Distantly, he could hear the phone ringing incessantly, knew that it was Penny, knew that she could feel this all the way from London. He spared a thought to silence it and made a mental note to call her back... when Aziraphale no longer needed him so fiercely.

Aziraphale suffered a few false starts when he opened his mouth to speak—only releasing more tortured sounds.

“I... I don’t... _I feel so violated,”_ he shrieked, erupting into more soul-deep sobs. Crowley pulled him in, situating the angel’s head in the crook of his neck.

“I thought those were mine, I thought they were a gift... _you can’t give someone a gift, make them dependent on it, and then take it back...”_

Crowley stroked the angel’s hair rhythmically, knowing nothing he could do or say would come remotely close to making this better, making this _hurt less. _So he settled for what he could do; be there, be close.

“What can I do, angel? How can I help, what do you need?” he asked again. He’d been in Aziraphale’s position, knew that he likely didn’t know _what he needed._ But on the off chance he did know, then Crowley would leap into the sky and hand him the moon, if he wanted it.

Aziraphale made a strangled noise against Crowley’s neck, confirming his suspicions.

“Well,” Crowley began with a bittersweet smile. “Temperance is over. You can have a drink, if you like. I can go into town, get anything you want. You want wine? Something stronger? I’ll get the best whiskey demonic money can buy...”

He shifted on the bed to pull the angel closer, but clearly Aziraphale thought he was getting up, _leaving_, because he yelped a pitiful little “no!” and gripped Crowley’s shirt front frantically, pulling him impossibly closer.

Crowley sighed, cradling the back of Aziraphale’s head with one hand, and rubbing soothingly across his back with the other, careful to avoid the area where his wings had been. He didn’t know if they hurt, physically, but he wasn’t willing to find out.

“Oh, angel. I’m not... I’m not going anywhere. I just... I want to help, and I know that I can’t, and I’m so sorry. I’ve never _not been able to help you_, in some form or another, and it’s killing me. Is... is there anything I can do? You want some water? Some music, maybe? I can read to you...”

Aziraphale sniffled, his intense sobs dying down just a little, but his grip remaining.

“I... I need... I...” he began, erupting back into tears and shaking harder. “_I want to be whole again...”_

Crowley didn’t miss the distinction, the late swerve, the amendment—_want _to be whole, rather than _need._ As if being whole, being as God made him was a privilege and not a bloody _right._

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever felt such rage—such desire to go and rally the armies of Hell to follow him into Heaven, and give them their bloody war. To storm those pearly fucking gates, and rip the wings from every single one of those high-n-mighty, holier-than-thou twats. _How does it feel now, Michael. Does it seem just, now?!_

But his wrath would not help him here.

He took a deep breath, trying to encourage Aziraphale to do the same, and was immensely relieved when he did. It was shaky and pitiful, but it was progress.

“Tell me about Wilde, angel,” Crowley asked quietly. He’d of course listened to Aziraphale chatter mindlessly about the author in the past, but that was the point, really—to get the angel talking, _thinking _about something else, anything else.

“Oh, you don’t want to _hic-_hear me p-prattle on about that o-old chestnut,” Aziraphale mumbled, trying desperately to catch his breath.

“Of course I do,” Crowley replied, only half meaning it. He didn’t necessarily relish hearing about Oscar Wilde again, but he _did relish_ hearing his angel’s voice, his angel’s passion _very much. _“I was asleep, remember, so I never knew him personally. All I know of him I know through his words. And, while articulate, they’re not all he was. Tell me. What was he like to be around? To talk to?”

Aziraphale sniffed again, and to Crowley’s delight, his fists began to loosen on his shirt.

“W-well...” Aziraphale began, his voice evening out. “To be in h-his presence was very... intimidating, a-at first. Quiet, that one. Pensive. Believed in thinking over his words before speaking, and as such, remained silent when others filled the air with meaningless small talk.”

At that, the angel let out a small, broken giggle.

“Said he didn’t believe in ‘small talk.’ He said all words should be grand, or never leave the lips, lest they wound them on the way out.”

“Sounds like a knob,” Crowley said, to which he earned a tiny, begrudging laugh.

“He was certainly sophisticated in his manner, that’s for sure,” Aziraphale replied, his voice finally even. “But once you got to know him, really know him... he was a very lonely soul. Kept so many companions, surrounded himself with so many whose presence only stood to inflate and compliment him, not _value _him. I could see it in his eyes, in a room full of people who professed to love him—he’d never felt more alone. So I sought to be what he needed—someone who would listen, someone who would _hear him,_ but not try to volley with his wit. And I think... or I’d _like to think _he appreciated it. I certainly don’t think he’d have kept me around so long if he didn’t.”

The angel rearranged, finally pulling back enough to look Crowley in the eyes.

“For all you make your jokes, I really... really didn’t know that all of those Gentleman’s Clubs were... _what they were,_ not at first anyway. But when I found out, I... I dunno, I... felt a yearning to stay. All of those poor souls, shunned and hiding away _just for loving._ And Oscar, for all he wrote and spoke of unapologetic love, of love that roars and bats at the cages... hiding there too...”

Aziraphale paused, his eyes trained meticulously on Crowley’s.

“He reminded me of you, a bit,” he said earnestly.

Crowley scoffed affectionately. “Lovely, after you’ve agreed he was a knob!”

Aziraphale _smiled,_ and Crowley was so relieved to see it, he felt like doing backflips.

“Well... if the shoe fits, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley gave him a yelped “oi!”

Feeling a surge of affection, Crowley released the back of the angel’s head and brought the back of a knuckle to his cheek, wiping away the remaining tear tracks.

He was loathe to bring it back up, but he needed Aziraphale to know.

“They’re not what makes you an angel... _angel,” _he whispered, watching as the statement made Aziraphale’s expression go stale. “Your love, and your kindness, and... Hell, even your bloody _hedonism_...”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to spit out an “oi!” but Crowley plowed on.

“It makes you _understand _the humans in a way no other angel does. It’s like you said; to tell people how to live, you should _see how people live. _And you _do—have done. _You understand them, and you _love them._ And _that_ makes you the most angelic angel of them all, wings or no.”

Aziraphale nodded, pursing his lips and looking like he might cry again. But before Crowley could interject with something to cheer him up, he spoke up.

“I know, Crowley. I know.”

He reached around boldly to splay his hand out between Crowley’s shoulder blade and spine, making him shudder.

“_But I miss them,” _he squeaked, curling his hand against Crowley’s back and forcing another shudder. “_I miss your hands on them...”_

Crowley felt his heart break again. They’d only just taken that step, and now it was gone—forcefully taken away. Aziraphale had decided he trusted Crowley to _touch_, and now he couldn’t. It made him almost wish he hadn’t. He’d made Aziraphale enjoy it, made him _want it..._ and then lose it.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, brushing the angel’s cheek again, even though there were no tears to be found.

“Oh, don’t be. Don’t be, my dear. It’s not your fault,” Aziraphale said, caressing Crowley’s back again. “It’s not your fault, none of it is. All you’ve ever done is be there to catch me when I’ve fallen... er, excuse the idiom...”

Crowley smiled. “I know this is small comfort now, but... you’ll get them back, angel. I know it seems like you’ve got a long road ahead of you, and you do... I won’t belittle what this feels like by pretending it won’t be hard. Some days you’ll feel alright, some days you won’t want to leave the bed. Some days you won’t even notice they’re gone, some days you’ll feel such a gnawing agony that you feel like you’re going to split in two. But... it’ll end. In the grand scheme of things, a year is... a year is small potatoes, angel. And I’ve seen you stare down Satan, I’ve seen you defy Heaven. I’ve seen you give away a flaming sword and then _lie to bloody God about it.”_

Aziraphale giggled, and it was like that first drag on a cigarette—relief mingling with a modest, dizzying high.

“You’re strong angel. You’ve made it this far. You’ll knock this trial out of the park and laugh as it goes. And I’ll _be here, angel._ For every second, if you need me to. And when you’ve got them back, my hands are yours. Like... like the rest.”

Aziraphale brightened, and yet tears brimmed in his eyes again as he leaned in and placed a simple but very drawn-out kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“Wilde’s got ‘nothin on you, my wily, poetic demon,” he whispered, the movement turning the words into a kiss as well and sending a thrill through Crowley’s chest.

“Hm, so... not a knob, then?” Crowley asked, staying right where he was and smiling against Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale smiled back. “A _bit of a knob. _But my favorite kind.”

Crowley giggled at the unintentional innuendo, but didn’t comment. Instead, he miracled Aziraphale’s copy of _Dorian Gray _over from the next room, allowing it to fall open to a random page.

He didn’t rearrange; instead staying just as he was, pressed against the angel’s front, book propped open behind Aziraphale’s back, and began reading in hushed tones.

“You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is a reflection...”

To his shock, he was already feeling the angel relax into sleep, hearing his ragged, exhausted breaths even out.

He placed a kiss in his puffy hair, whispering words burdened with a demonic miracle.

“You will dream only good dreams, angel. _My angel.”_

***April***

Aziraphale was in bad shape for a little over three weeks. He slept fitfully for nearly two full days after his wings were taken, but after that, he couldn’t relax enough to get to sleep. He would sit in bed, still as stone, his gaze unfocused as it stared at the same portion of wall for hours on end.

Sometimes he would break down out of nowhere, sobbing so hard he exhausted himself. The only thing that seemed to help was Crowley’s closeness and tight embrace. Sometimes, when even that wasn’t enough, Crowley would shift to his serpent form, wrapping around the angel’s entire body so that he could feel his reassuring weight _everywhere._

Sometimes nothing worked. Sometimes Aziraphale was inconsolable, shaking and sobbing and cursing the angels that did this to him. That was when it was the worst—that was when he didn’t take any notice of Crowley’s presence, didn’t even acknowledge his voice when he tried to speak to him, read to him, _anything._

On the rare occasion Crowley left his side, he’d try to make something for the angel to eat—he miracled up a copy of Julia Child’s book and tried his hand at so many things. He tried coq au vin, boeuf bourguignon, lobster bisque, and champignons farcis. He tried apple tarts and chocolate mousse. He even tried a soufflé, which... that went to Hell in a hand basket faster than you could say _“ineffable_.” Those took patience and precision, two things he sorely lacked. So really he just made a ruined pan.

None of it was enough to coax the angel to even get out of the bed. On the rare occasion he convinced him to eat something, it was brought into the bedroom and handed to him, but he didn’t seem to find any enjoyment in it. He simply took whatever Crowley handed him and nibbled on it mechanically.

It wasn’t that the angel needed it, but... he’d always loved eating, trying new delicacies. They made him light up like a sunrise on Primrose Hill. But, as Crowley miracled his untouched dishes to various food pantries and homeless shelters (because that’s what Aziraphale would do), it became clear that was no longer the case.

At one point, Crowley became so distraught that he called Penny in a panic, and had to be talked down from flying up to Heaven and ripping Michael’s wings off to bring to his angel.

And, in week three, when he was just about getting ready to fly up there himself and give God a piece of his bloody mind... Aziraphale emerged from the bedroom.

Crowley was sitting at the little circular dining table in the kitchen, anxiously kicking a lanky leg and staring down into a black coffee he hadn’t touched, wondering how many angels he’d have to dismember to get God’s attention. Clearly She didn’t care about them all that much, or she wouldn’t be letting this happen, so it would probably be quite a few. But that was just as well, because Crowley was looking to take out some anger, and one or two just wouldn’t cut it.

That was when he caught the movement, heard the shuffle of bare feet.

His immediate impulse was to leap to his feet and embrace the angel, hold him tight, offer him food, ask if he was okay. Instead he froze, wary of moving too quickly for fear of spooking him.

“Uh, h-hey, angel,” he said quietly, staying where he was but uncrossing his legs in preparation to jump up if he needed to. “D’you, er... want anything? Need anything?”

Aziraphale simply shook his head meekly, twisting his hands together. He looked a complete mess; his pajamas wrinkled from lying in one position too long, pillow marks on his skin, and his hair sticking out every which way.

Crowley slowly stood, approaching with caution and placing his hands on the angel’s shoulders. He knew from experience that asking what he needed would get him nowhere; Aziraphale didn’t know what he needed, and if he did, 6000 years of Heavenly brainwashing would kick in, telling him that _needing _anything was unangelic, and making him clam up.

So, Crowley did what came to mind next; _what would I want?_

“Here, come here,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand and gently leading him into the bathroom. Once there, he dropped the angel’s hand and turned the faucet in the claw foot tub, ensuring the water was just on the too-hot side of perfect.

“What... what are you...” Aziraphale mumbled, watching with very muted interest as Crowley poured chamomile-rose bath salts and lavender bubble bath into the water.

“You’re going to take a nice long bath. It’ll make you feel bette-well, not _better_, bloody stupid to even suggest, but... but... good?” Crowley offered.

“But I don’t nee-”

_“Yes. Yes you do,” _Crowley argued firmly, beginning to roll his sleeves up in preparation.

Aziraphale caught the movement, and narrowed his eyes

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing Crowley’s sleeves still.

“I’m going to help you,” Crowley stated, and really, it was so obvious. “If I leave you in here to do this yourself, you’ll botch it horribly. You don’t indulge in baths often, in fact the last time you probably did was bloody _Rome_, so you’ve no idea what a modern soak even _is. _Don’t worry, I won’t make it _weird._ You can miracle yourself into it if undressing is too... too... _inappropriate, _but I...”

His voice suddenly went very small, and he broke their eye contact to stare down at the floor.

“I want to take care of you. _Let me take care of you.”_

That seemed to break through. Aziraphale softened, a bittersweet smile spreading his lips for the first time in weeks.

“Of course, my dear, don’t know what I was thinking. How should I...”

“Oh, er... I mean... just get in. Preferably _without _clothes, but... you know... however you’re comfortable,” Crowley stuttered.

He should have guessed Aziraphale wouldn’t miracle himself out of his clothing; he cared about it too much, even in his current state. He wanted to fold them carefully, lovingly put them aside.

Crowley turned his back while Aziraphale did so, even though he had a thousand things to say about how humanity had twisted what they learned in the garden into some perverse modesty culture that rewarded shame, but... now was not the time for all that. He simply waited quietly until he heard the angel sink into the water, letting out a little groan of comfort.

“Not too hot, angel?” Crowley asked, suddenly wary as he turned around. He liked his baths searing hot, but then again he was immune to hellfire, so his definition of ‘hot’ was probably a bit skewed.

“Mmm, no, it’s perfect,” Aziraphale replied, grinning slightly as he relaxed against the back of the tub. “So.... now what?”

Crowley miracled up a small stool and kicked it closer, coming to sit on it behind Aziraphale’s back.

“Whatever you want,” he said lightly. “Some people listen to music, some people read books...”

At that, Aziraphale brightened, and Crowley was delighted to see it.

“Some people have Tellies in the bathroom, and they watch their programs,” he finished, grabbing a loofah and pouring some body wash onto it.

“What, er... what do you do?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley paused. He couldn’t very well tell him that 50% of his showers consisted of rigorous wanking, could he? So he went with the other 50%.

“Really I just... use the time to think,” he said, motioning with a hand to suggest Aziraphale raise an arm. He did, and Crowley began lathering it up. “Bloody brain goes 100 miles an hour, most of the time, and doing this, it... it helps me... I dunno... helps me focus, helps me _calm down._” He lowered Aziraphale’s arm and went for the other one. “Don’t know why, but... s’just easier to forget all my worries, when I’m _indisposed,_ and currently _can’t _tackle any of them. That, or... or it’s just the warmth, serpent nature and all, and I’m overthinking this.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Overthinking is your middle name. The J is silent.”

Crowley briefly considered putting up a fuss, but just let out a breath through his nose and muttered, “probably right.”

He maneuvered back behind Aziraphale, waving a hand. “Sit up,” he asked softly, but his breath caught as he beheld the angel’s back.

Two red, aggravated marks resided where the angel’s wings would be, oval-shaped like the joints, and marring the skin like burns.

Crowley sucked in a breath between his teeth and held it, not daring to move.

“_Oh, angel,” _he breathed. He’d been afraid to ask if they hurt, but now he wished he had. He could have taken care of this much sooner. “Does... do they hurt?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, his voice troubled. Crowley didn’t miss how he pointedly did _not_ answer the question.

“Nothing. Well, not _nothing,_ but... don’t worry angel. M-may I, erm... touch? Does it hurt you?” he asked again, hoping for an answer.

Aziraphale continued to sit, rigid as a board, but he sighed.

“It’s... it’s difficult to explain,” he whimpered.

“Trust me, angel... of all the creatures you could try to explain it to... I am uniquely qualified to understand,” Crowley said, swallowing the lump in his throat that arose with the images of his feathers on fire, the skin beneath blistering and peeling away.

“Oh... oh, right. Yes,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand dismissively and accidentally flinging bubbles onto the floor. “I don’t mean to suggest that... that just missing them is anything close to what yo-”

“No, no! Don’t. Don’t do that, angel,” Crowley interrupted, a little too harshly. “Don’t compare our pain, it’s not a competition. Just because mine was different doesn’t automatically make mine _worse._ Pain is pain, and no one should hide theirs, should think they’re being ridiculous because they don’t view it as _enough._ There is no criteria at which pain is deemed _enough_ to be considered _real. _If it hurts you, it’s enough.”

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, but he saw the shoulders relax, the ribs release a breath.

“Th-thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Sometimes I forget you’re a demon, honestly.”

Again, Crowley felt the immediate urge to argue the point, but now was not the time, and given that Aziraphale had meant it as a compliment, and he could, as a rule, accept those now... he’d let it slide. This once.

“So?” Crowley prodded.

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s not... not _physical,_ per se, the pain. It’s like... it’s like an aching _absence._ I keep trying to move them, stretch them... and when nothing happens, when I can feel the response, and it’s just this... gnawing open _wound_... metaphysically, and I can... I can _feel it tearing open_ the more I try to find them... and it’s... it’s the _absence _that hurts.”

His voice was beginning to break, his body beginning to tremble, and Crowley yearned to help him.

“I understand, really I do, angel,” he whispered, dipping the loofah down into the hot water. “May I?”

“I... I don’t know. Give it a go,” Aziraphale replied tentatively.

Crowley steeled himself, gently raising the loofah and allowing the sudsy water to cascade down over the irritated marks.

Aziraphale hissed, straightening, and Crowley yanked the loofah away.

“N-no, no... doesn’t hurt. Just... feels strange. Please continue, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sounding unsure.

Crowley nodded, then, realizing Aziraphale couldn’t see it, simply dunked the loofah again and returned to his gentle strokes. Eventually, Aziraphale’s rigid posture softened, and he relaxed into the movements.

Crowley steeled himself, preparing his tongue to form words he hadn’t spoken... _ever._

_“_Obviously, I didn’t lose them in the Fall... but as good as, really,” he began, his voice rocky.

Aziraphale immediately interrupted, “oh, Crowley you don’t have to...”

“I... I want to, angel,” he said, working across the angel’s back with the loofah, easing up on the pressure when he crossed over the wing markings.

The silence was all the confirmation he needed to go on.

“The humans depict the Fall as a physical thing; winged creatures plummeting from the clouds into the burning pit. And I suppose there is an element of truth to it, at least in the only way humans are capable of describing it. We were cast from Heaven, but it’s not like the Earth existed in between for us to fall through. Like a buffer. The Earth hadn’t been created yet. So... it was much more jarring than that. In fact, I would have welcomed a bit of time before impact...”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath and held it.

“It was instantaneous. For all of us. One second we were there, with Her... and the next... it... we just...”

His throat caught, and he cleared it, trying to control the intensity of the images and failing miserably.

“It was like walking into rushing traffic, like being suddenly submerged. But it wasn’t water we were tossed into...”

Aziraphale released a stressed squeak, and Crowley paused.

“If you don’t want to hear this, stop me,” he said, wondering suddenly why he thought this would help—telling an angel who’d recently lost his wings the story of how his own burned.

“No, it’s... I’m glad that you trust me with it...” Aziraphale said, rearranging. It was actually a relief that they weren’t facing each other—looking into those sapphire eyes while he said these words... it would be like looking into the sun.

Crowley simply rocketed back in, the words spilling out around an elongated tongue.

“It seems so sssstrange, talking about an impact when no actual movement took place. We were just... displaced into another plane of existence. But... I suppose that’s the most jarring of all, being forced through realities. Maybe that’s what it was. But... regardless, it did feel like the impact you’d experience after falling from a bloody mountain.

“Now... none of us had corporeal form yet, so it wasn’t like bones could break, muscles could pull. But it certainly felt like it. It was an open, festering wound in the center of all of us, where our grace used to be, where _Her love_ used to be. That was the worst of it, but... there’s only so much you can take, only so much screaming you can do...”

Aziraphale again whimpered.

“So the icing on the cake, the final blow, the straw that broke the demon’s back... was the burning of our wings. It drove many of them completely insane. Saw a few destroy each other. At the time, I thought it was just our initial demonic natures making us feral and vicious. Now, thinking back... I think it might have been mercy. I think some of them asked—asked to be destroyed, rather than suffer this.”

Crowley could hear Aziraphale sniffle, but couldn’t stop the momentum.

“Felt like it took years. Don’t know how long it actually took. Time hadn’t been invented yet, so it could have been eons.

“It started with the flames. They were unholy, constant, fuel-less licks of pure agony. Burned away every barb, every soft vane. And when the feathers were gone...”

He choked on the words, feeling the heat rolling down the back of his neck, his spine.

“It started in on the flesh. Or whatever resides beneath the feathers when you don’t have form. Star matter. _Ethereal membrane_. Whatever it was, it caught like dry brush. Burned down to the structure of us, weeding out anything remotely holy. If we had veins, there was fire in them, if we had bones, they were systematically shattered and replaced with sulfur. If we had eyes to see, they melted in whatever skull we had. Somehow we still managed to cry though...”

Aziraphale pulled away, spinning in the tub to look at Crowley, viciously taking his hand and forcing him to drop the loofah in the water. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Crowley... _my Crowley..._ I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry._ I knew, but... oh, I didn’t _know_,” he cried.

Crowley shook his head, staring down into the bubbles, into their joined hands.

“That’s not... that wasn’t why I told you all this. I’m not looking for pity. I came to terms with this a long time ago. But... I needed you to know that... it ends. It always ends. Doesn’t matter if it’s a day or an eternity, everything ends. One day the burning stops, the raging, gnawing, gnashing emptiness begins to fill, little by little. One day you’ll wake up to full feathers, to blue skies, to angels on walls with_out_ swords.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “My dearest, I... I really don’t know how I’d get through all this without you.”

Crowley shrugged, feeling exposed and raw. “You were there for me when I crawled up here to make some trouble. Just... just returning the favor.”

Before Crowley even registered the movement, Aziraphale had clasped Crowley’s face in his sudsy hands, rose to his knees in the bath, and yanked Crowley against him for a ravenous kiss.

It was desperate, and grasping, and Crowley was helpless to anything but lean into it, eventually losing his balance when his thighs hit the tub edge and toppling forward to fall into the tub on top of the angel with a magnificent _splash _that coated nearly every bathroom surface in water and bubbles.

They pulled apart to look around at the mess, descending into immediate and boisterous laughter. Crowley distantly registered that he was pressed against a _naked Aziraphale,_ but the moment was too innocent to mar with thoughts of the more lustful variety. Perhaps he’d give it the proper analysis it deserved much later, but for now... he scooped up some bubbles on his fingertip, placed them delicately on the tip of his angel’s nose, and then soundly smeared it on his own cheek as he pressed in for another sweet kiss.

“So all that poppycock about sauntering was just a fabrication, then?” Aziraphale asked, pushing Crowley’s wet hair back with combing fingers.

“Not entirely,” Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug. He scooted in closer, caging the angel in by placing his hands on the rim of the tub, and reveling in the feeling of Aziraphale’s plush chest against his, even if it was through a layer of clothing. “We all ended up in the same place, but the lead up... I imagine I made it look _very cool.”_

Aziraphale giggled and pecked at his lips again.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, only pulling away far enough to speak.

“Yes, Crowley?”

“You have _ruined _my clothes!”

***May***

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley was keeping a count. At first, it had been only in his head—little tally marks checked off in his brain. But, on those occasions that Aziraphale was feeling down, and didn’t want to leave the bed, it was easy to let time get away from him. Sometimes it would be several days before either of them left the bedroom, and the days had blended together. The only way Crowley managed to keep track of them was fetching the dated newspapers from the end of the drive.

So, he started keeping a physical record in the form of an awful ‘12 Months of Poodles’ calendar he’d picked up at the village drug store. He didn’t want Aziraphale to _know _that that was what he was doing, lest he become discouraged, so he marked the days with a single, tiny vertical line. That way, if Aziraphale came across the calendar... he would just see... poodles.

It was almost a month before Aziraphale managed to force himself back into a routine; rising in the morning, bathing if he felt like it, eating a little something. He still wasn’t indulging like he used to, and to Crowley’s horror, he was beginning to lose weight. Crowley did his best to make him eat, but the angel just wasn’t interested. He was drinking, but that wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been—he seemed to be using alcohol as a crutch to deal with his depression. And that’s what it was, Crowley decided. He was sure others would argue that immortals can’t suffer from depression, to which he would gladly argue that, if you do this to them, then yes. Yes they do.

When, eventually, Crowley convinced Aziraphale that their work in the cottage was at a stopping point, and they should head back to London, things started looking up.

They dined at the Ritz. They walked in the park and fed the ducks. They drank obscene amounts of wine in the back room of the bookshop. They even went out to lunch with Penny, and, to Crowley’s shock, met her boyfriend.

It had been a bit of a roller coaster, that. Penny had existed in a bubble in Crowley’s mind; one in which she was suspended in a state of perpetual availability. He went to her when he needed to vent about his loneliness, his horniness, or any other topic he didn’t feel comfortable burdening Aziraphale with. Deep down, he’d known she wouldn’t exist in that bubble forever, and that she was human, and needed human relationships. But he hadn’t expected it to be so... _soon._ Well... was it really that soon? He had known her for almost two years now. That was quite a bit of time for humans. So really... it was about time this little game came to an end.

Obviously, Penny didn’t tell the lad _what_ their lunch companions were, as that would be very odd hardly-know-you conversation fodder. _Oh yes, this is Aziraphale and Crowley. I know them through a curse I put on both of them, long story, and they are an angel and demon respectively. Oh, don’t worry. They’re nice. Sort of. Crowley’s retired. Sort of. Thanks to me._

Yes, that would be weird. If this went somewhere serious, perhaps then.

The meeting had been odd, but wonderfully human. Crowley had thought it was a very interesting distraction.

That is, until the book shop door closed behind them, and Aziraphale burst into tears and collapsed to the foyer floor.

Neither of them could tell what brought it on, but that was how it had been—sometimes it was seeing the birds, flitting about high above London, sometimes there was no saying what caused it.

What mattered was that Crowley was there to pull him to his feet, walk him to the couch, wrap him in a blanket, bring him tea, and rub his back.

“Did I ever tell you that I’m the Loch Ness Monster?” Crowley asked nonchalantly, checking off option 4 on the list of ‘weird, obscure things I never told Aziraphale that I can use to distract him when he’s down and brighten his spirits.’

As had been intended, Aziraphale jolted out of his despair, barking a quick laugh as he stared up at his companion with confusion.

“What?” he asked, lowering his tea to the saucer.

“Yeah. That creature in the photographs? Me. At first, it was just my serpent form. Popped in to torment some fishermen, foment fear in their minds. Some bloke managed to snap that first shot of my head above water. Then, when it really started catching on,” he paused to wave a hand at the fire, and it burst to life. Aziraphale hummed happily. “I started shifting the shape a little, especially when people began speculating it was that… that… flippered dinosaur thingy. Made regular appearances for about eighty years or so, just to keep the doubt alive, but... after that? Pffft, human minds ran away with the damn thing.”

Aziraphale finally smiled, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

It was later that night, when Aziraphale had managed to calm a bit, downed his tea, and was sitting comfortably on the sofa, that he blurted,

“Bring yours out, Crowley!”

While Crowley’d like to pretend he didn’t know what that random exclamation meant... 6000 years of listening to Aziraphale pick up sentences mid-thought had taught him how to infer what the front half had looked like in his head.

“No, angel,” he said gently, taking the teacup and saucer and walking them to the sink. “I told you, I’m participating in your trials too. So if that means you’ve no wings, then neither have I.”

“But... _but for a whole year?!”_ Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, my dear, they’ll get so unruly, and so _itchy!”_

“So be it,” Crowley snapped, filling the teacup with water. He was a bloody demon, after all, he’d dealt with things much more uncomfortable than itchy wings. And what was more—the sight of them would likely make Aziraphale distraught, missing his own.

No. Aziraphale thought he wanted that, but... he didn’t.

“Oh, my dear, don’t be ridiculous...” he tried to argue.

“Not ridiculous, angel,” Crowley replied tersely. “I’ve not... I won’t... that is to say...” he paused, sighing. “To flaunt them in front of you would just be _cruel...”_

_“Oh, no no no,” _Aziraphale begged, actually _begged_, and it struck Crowley like an arrow right between the eyes. “It wouldn’t be flaunting... it would... it would remind me...”

_“I said no, angel!”_ Crowley snapped, instantly regretting it when he saw the dejected look settling on Aziraphale’s face.

He sighed, returning to the couch and kneeling in front of Aziraphale. He took the angel’s hands in his, looking up at him with determination.

“Aziraphale, look...” he started, trying desperately to organize his thoughts but finding them scattered, frayed, and distraught. “I... you remember, when I... got upset, about... all of this? About my inability to help you?”

Aziraphale nodded, squeezing Crowley’s hands minutely.

“Same deal,” Crowley continued. “I can’t... _I can’t help you, can’t fix this, can hardly even manage to distract you._ And I...” he paused, feeling the words already growing uncomfortable in his mind, but itching to say them. “Excuse the sap, but... your smile is my sunshine, your happiness my oxygen. I don’t just thrive in them, _I need them._ I can’t survive without them. And I’m suffocating here, and I’m trying, but I just... I can’t seem to do enough. And _that..._ if I brought my wings out, I know it would upset you, perhaps not in the way you think, but I’m terrified of taking away your smile again. Because _I can’t... I can’t...”_

Aziraphale abandoned Crowley’s hands, flinging his arms around him and drawing him in close. As always, it was a suffocating embrace, and Crowley relished every second—took a deep breath in of the angel’s crisply divine scent.

“Oh, Crowley, I know,” he whispered into Crowley’s hair, making him shiver. “I know this is hard, and not just for me. I know you’re trying to make it easier on me, and I appreciate it, I really do; making me get out when all I want to do is wallow in bed, making me eat when I have no interest, making me bathe when you think I could use the warmth. You’re a pillar, Crowley, you really are. But...”

He paused, pulling away but holding Crowley out at arm’s length and fixing him in a downtrodden gaze.

“There are some things you just can’t fix,” Aziraphale continued, and the words sliced Crowley to the quick. “This isn’t something I’m going to get over...”

Crowley panicked. “No! No, no, that’s not what I’m trying to-”

“Oh, I know, dearest, I know you’re not. I know you’d never expect that of me. You entrusted me with the story of your Fall, I know you understand there’s no ‘getting over’ this,” Aziraphale added hurriedly. “I just... sometimes I’m going to feel down. And no amount of silly tales about the Loch Ness Monster will shake me from it...”

Both of them grinned, but it was bittersweet. Aziraphale rubbed Crowley’s arms reassuringly, but it didn’t quite work.

“You may not be able to make it stop, but I still _need you_,” Aziraphale said, his tone bearing the conviction of a prayer. “And I know that’s hard for you, that you can’t breathe when I’m like this... metaphorically, I mean. But... hold your breath, love, _please_. For me? I promise I’ll come out of it eventually, I’ll come round. I just... sometimes I need to feel it. They took a _part of me_, and though you try, _Heaven do you try_, you can’t put it back. I just... I need to figure out who I am without that missing piece. Even though I’ll get it back, I... I have to figure out how to function without it. For now.”

Crowley felt like his heart was going to drop right out of his chest. He wanted to kick, punch, scream up at Her. _What does this prove? What does this teach him, huh? Same lesson you taught me when you threw me away! That you can take everything from us, because you made us. We’re beholden to you, is that it? Because you’re bloody _God,_ and everything we have, you can take away. Doesn’t instill a lot of gratitude, when every gift can be stolen back._

He did not say any of this, though. He simply nodded, morosely rising to his feet and beckoning Aziraphale to rise with him.

He led him upstairs, to only minor unanswered protests, and led him through the portal to his Mayfair flat. He could have gone to Aziraphale’s modest one, but for what he was planning, he needed a grand, floor-length mirror.

He swallowed his dread, knowing what he was planning would bring tears to his angel’s eyes, also knowing he wasn’t sure he could handle that sight again. But Aziraphale needed it, so Crowley would ‘hold his breath.’

He led the angel into his stylish washroom, turning him and depositing him facing the massive mirror.

“What are you...?” Aziraphale began, clearly displeased with his own disheveled and haggard appearance.

“You say they took a piece of you, that you have to figure out how to survive without it,” Crowley said flatly, gathering courage to press himself against the angel’s back and wrap his arms around him. Aziraphale stiffened, but allowed it—even softened into it when Crowley locked his hands together against Aziraphale’s belly, resting his own hands atop them.

“You say you’re not whole,” Crowley said, his voice breaking as his Adam’s Apple collided with Aziraphale’s shoulder when he propped his chin there.

“But you are,” Crowley said, stronger now as he looked at the sight of them in the mirror, clasped together. “You’re not fractured, you’re not missing anything. You’re exactly the angel I met 6000 years ago. You don’t _need_ wings to be that kind, you don’t _need_ wings to be that funny, you don’t _need_ wings to be _that bastard.”_

Aziraphale laughed, and it vibrated against Crowley’s entire body, giving him the strength to do what he did next.

Aziraphale inhaled hard as Crowley’s midnight wings erupted behind him, and the angle made them look like they were his—like they shared them.

“But if you_ want them,_ take mine. Take anything you need to fill in those gaps Heaven’s gouged into you, I’ll readily give it. Anytime you want them, if it helps you to feel even remotely better, just ask.”

He paused, looking into the mirror and watching as Aziraphale’s eyes roved over the left wing. He flexed it, watching as the angel’s eyes lit up with wonder. They wandered next to the right one, and Crowley flexed that one too—as if Aziraphale were controlling them.

“I know they’re not like the ones you had. I know they’re burned and black and _damned._ But... if you’d have them...”

“Oh, _Crowley_!” Aziraphale cried, tears bursting forth and making Crowley stop breathing. But these tears seemed to be a mixture of pleasure and pain, loss and triumph. “They’re _perfect,_ my dear! Th-” he had to stop to let out a sobbing breath-“_thank you_!”

He twisted his head awkwardly, and Crowley leaned back—only enough to turn in, not separating at all—and kissed him soundly.

It tasted of salty tears, and Crowley continued to kiss him until it no longer did.

***July***

It was during the fifth month (a goofy black poodle on the calendar) that Crowley and Aziraphale had a kind of breakthrough.

It was on a night Aziraphale had decided to try sleeping again, having laid his book down on the nightstand and turned off the Tiffany lamp (they were spending tonight at the flat above the bookshop—they never really discussed these things, Crowley just let Aziraphale choose where they spent their time, following him like a fly to a bulb. He figured it was pathetic, but he no longer worked for the people who would berate him for it, so... fuck it).

Crowley could tell something was wrong almost as soon as the glow from the lamp died down on the other side of his eyelids. First, Aziraphale let out a long sigh, and not one of the ones he released when he was content. It had that biting edge to it that Crowley had come to recognize—a strung-up tightness that signified held-back words and an inability to relax. But Crowley didn’t want to dote too much, lest he get on Aziraphale’s nerves with all his worrying, so he remained quiet and still, waiting to see if the angel would work it out himself.

He didn’t. He tried to settle in behind Crowley, but he kept rearranging positions, fidgeting with the sheets, and flipping his pillow over to the cool side. Finally, Crowley decided to butt in.

“Something the matter, angel?” he grumbled at the wall.

“Oh!” Aziraphale whispered, his voice high-pitched and fretting. “Oh, my dear, I woke you... I’m so sorry, didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t wake me, angel, I never fell asleep,” Crowley said, deciding not to flip over and face his angel... yet. “What’s wrong?”

“I... I... I don’t... know...” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley could hear him twisting his fingers, the way he did whenever he was hiding something.

“Yes you do, you’re just afraid to say it,” Crowley said, knowing his words could be perceived as harsh, and keeping his voice soft. “Come on, angel, what is it?”

He suddenly felt an incredibly light fingertip trail up his spine, splitting off to trace a circle around where his left wing would be. He’d only recently become comfortable enough to sleep without a shirt on, but he was starting to regret it—feeling those velvet-soft fingertips directly on his skin.

He was unable to stifle the shudder, but he tried to disguise it by shifting his legs.

“Would... would you, er... consider...” Aziraphale began, still working his fingertip in a smooth circle beneath Crowley’s scapula.

Nervousness began to bubble up in Crowley’s gut. Much more of this, and he would find himself with a very awkward situation... _arising._

“Spit it out, angel,” he said, rolling his shoulder.

“Oh, erm... do you think you could... _sleepwithyourwingsout, I’dliketofeelthem.”_

It all came out as a blurted word or two, but Crowley caught it. And he _wanted _to give his angel what he asked for, he really did. But...

“Aziraphale...”

Aziraphale continued his violent word vomiting. “I know. I know, Crowley. I know how you react to having your wings touched, so if the answer is no, I understand, that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to ask, I know what I’m asking, but I... I want... I need...”

Well, they’d talked about this. Just as Aziraphale had asked Crowley not to shut down on him all those months ago at the cottage, Crowley had asked Aziraphale to communicate the things he wanted, the things he _needed._ And he was. So Crowley had a decision to make—acquiesce to Aziraphale’s communication, thus putting himself in a dangerous situation, libido-wise, or... deny his angel what he’d struggled to ask for, thereby proving that he hadn’t meant what he said.

He inhaled, and within the same breath, his wings were resting between them.

“Oh, _thank you, my dear, may... may I...” _Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley just _knew_ the angel’s dithering hands were hovering just centimeters away from his feathers.

“Of course you can, angel, just... just...”

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. ‘_Be careful you don’t turn me on?’_ Well _that_ was out of the question.

“I will, Crowley, I’ll be careful,” Aziraphale whispered, and suddenly he was settling in close behind Crowley, practically spooning him, the angel’s arms curling between his wings and back, pulling them against his chest like a pillow.

Crowley was helpless against the whine that bubbled up as the angel’s warm, soft presence pressed in against his sensitive wings. He gripped his pillow hard, swallowing down the immediate urge to pull away.

He couldn’t decide whether to feel elation or horror as Aziraphale nuzzled his face against the feathers, settling so close that Crowley feel every breath as it brushed through the vanes. Crowley was lost when the angel’s hands began subconsciously curling where they were gently resting against his wings.

He spared a minor miracle to keep his corporation calm, but it didn’t change the position he’d found himself in. It didn’t change that pleasurable pass of fingers through feathers, that press of his angel’s entire body against him, that tangle of feet together.

And while the miracle had ensured no unfortunate swelling or shaking, it hadn’t caught everything.

“M-my dear, you...” Aziraphale’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your back, your... your scales...”

“I know,” Crowley grumbled, concentrating on slowing his breathing, curbing his panic, and vanishing the line of iridescent black scales now lining his spine from neck to pants.

It wasn’t just the worry over his body’s response, though that was a major factor. Sometimes it was a rising doubt that he didn’t deserve this—that Aziraphale was just misplacing his divine love. Especially now that the angel’s loyalty and faith was being so viciously shaken. He felt a spotlight on him that had been pointed skyward for millennia, and he wasn’t prepared for its intensity, no matter how badly he craved it.

“H-happens, ssssometimess, when... I’m...” he said, mentally chastising himself for the uncontrolled bifurcated tongue and hisses. “Overwhelmed.”

“I remember,” Aziraphale replied, a single hand unwrapping from Crowley’s wing. An incredibly light fingertip then started at the nape of Crowley’s neck and followed the line of his spine. His scales were almost as sensitive as his wings, so he couldn’t help but to release another hiss, back arching away from Aziraphale, but the angel kept running his hand up and down Crowley’s back until it became mundane, and Crowley relaxed into it.

“My dear... may I ask you something... personal?” Aziraphale asked, his hand pausing right between Crowley’s wings.

“You can always ask, angel,” Crowley said whimsically, his wings twitching slightly in Aziraphale’s grasp. “Can’t guarantee I’ll answer, though.”

“That’s fine,” Aziraphale replied, his movements starting back up again. It was repetitive and comforting, like the swinging of a pendulum; up and down, up and down his spine, soothing. “The, erm... the words...”

Crowley wished he didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about, which words. But he did. Intimately.

“Yes?” Crowley asked, knowing his wings stiffened defensively, and knowing Aziraphale saw it.

The angel’s hand migrated slowly into the feathers, and Crowley shivered. His attentions were slow and cautious, but still luxurious and perfect.

“Why... why do you think... well, actually, let me begin by saying that I don’t _need _them, don’t need to hear them. If you can’t, you can’t, and I’ll accept that. But... why _can’t _you say them? Does it... _hurt you_, physically, to say them? Like holy words do? Or is it more of a... a burned-in aversion that comes from your superiors? Or are you literally incapable?”

Crowley sighed, unable to stop himself from pushing his wings back against Aziraphale’s hand, seeking pressure. The angel gladly obliged, massaging into the thick muscles near Crowley’s back. He groaned in comfort before continuing.

“No, I’m not incapable. Quite capable, actually,” he began, glad that he was facing away from Aziraphale for this. He picked absently at the pillowcase. “But they do burn, a bit, like hard alcohol, or strong cinnamon. All things considered, not really all that unpleasant. It’s... actually... just...” he paused to clear his throat, hand fisting into the pillowcase. “It’s a... personal thing, really. I... I learned that... learned to... you see, the...”

He paused to make a noise of frustration, abandoning the pillowcase and slapping his palm flat against the mattress. _Get a hold of yourself._

“I’ve only ever said those words to one other... _entity_, and it... they... _they weren’t enough, angel._ They were the last thing I said to Her. ‘_Don’t do this,’ _I said. ‘I love you, please don’t do this,’ I said.” He had to pause as, even though he was reciting them, not saying them _to_ anyone, they still singed his tongue and throat. His voice was raspy when he continued, “And they... they weren’t enough. So I... I learned their value. And I learned that... even if I mean them, they’re not enough. Not from me. So... I don’t. I don’t say them. I _can_. I just... don’t,” he trailed off, already feeling guilty. _Yes, I could. I could say them, we both know it’s true. But I’m too damaged from the last one I said them to, and I’m allowing that to dictate how I behave with you, what I say to you. I know that makes me weak, I do. But I can’t, I just can’t, not again._

“Oh, Crowley...”

And _oh,_ if those words didn’t contain stones of pity.

But suddenly the angel’s tone changed. “Wait, if She was the last one you spoke those words to, and that was before you Fell... how... how do you know they burn you? Now? As a demon?”

_Well, fuck. Really in it now, old chap._

“Oh, er... it’s... it’s because...” Crowley stammered, shifting in the bed to creep closer to the edge, as if preparing to flee. “It... I... I, er... tested them. Years and years ago. It was... just after you first opened the shop. We drank all evening, doing dramatic readings from some of your early stock. We began alphabetizing them, but we were so blitzed, we bollocksed it up royally. I believe you allowed me to place the Bibles in the Fiction section...”

“Oh good gracious,” Aziraphale gasped, and it made Crowley’s chest feel warm.

“Anyway, we both got so smashed that we forgot to sober up and passed out on the floor in front of the fire. Woke up two days later, both of us were under one blanket, and you were using Dickens as a pillow.”

“Oh, dear... was I really?”

“Yep. I, er... I didn’t want you to have to shoo me away, didn’t know if you’d want me to still be there, when you woke. So I replaced the Dickens with a real pillow, tucked you in, and fed the fire. And I stopped in the middle of the street, as I was walking away, and I just kind of... said it. In the general direction of the shop.”

He had to stop, feeling the weight of the silence as it fell, as if someone had plopped a damn moose in the liminal space between them. Aziraphale’s hand was still where it rested in his feathers.

“And it did, it burned something fierce. Reminded me why I wasn’t worthy of speaking them...”

“Oh, Crowley, _no...”_

“Ah, angel, wait. I’m not looking for pity or reassurance. That’s not what this is,” Crowley interrupted, knowing his angel already had three or four rapid-fire praises in the barrel. “I’m just... I’m just saying. That’s why. And no amount of you telling me I’m wrong will change that. At least... not for a very long time. I’ve felt this for 6000 years. Can’t just... break me of the habit.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a very long time, so long, in fact, that Crowley thought he might have fallen asleep. That is until the angel’s careful fingertips returned to the scales lining his spine, caressing up and down, lightly tickling.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, his voice heavy and indignant. “You may say I can’t teach an old... er... _serpent_ new tricks, but I say to that_ pish posh!”_

Crowley snorted with laughter at the words.

“You say there’s no convincing you that you’re wrong, but... I will. I’ll spend the _next_ 6000 years doing it, if I must, and it’ll be time well bloody spent!” Aziraphale said, his hands migrating back beneath Crowley’s wings to pull them against his front, nuzzling his nose into the feathers. “And I’ve just had an epiphany, my dear. One doesn’t break a habit cold-turkey, not successfully anyway, so perhaps something smaller, something less grand. Something that doesn’t burn the tongue or the demonic sensibilities.”

Crowley considered snorting with derision and asking, bewildered, “and what might _that_ be, angel?” _I like you? Like some kind of smitten toddler in a sand pit?_ But his throat felt tight, and not just because Aziraphale’s words were warm and pleasant against his feathers.

“How about this,” Aziraphale began again, suddenly shifting impossibly closer, his full weight against Crowley’s back and wings, his chin propping on the edge of Crowley’s bony shoulder.

He turned his head to look the angel in the eye, immediately intoxicated by the nuances of blue, this close—like starbursts in a snow globe.

“You can’t say them, but... you can answer questions...”

Oh. _Oh._

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, breathy and unblinking. Intense. _Passionate_. “_Do you love me?”_

An unbidden and pathetic sound arose in Crowley’s throat, one much like a bitter laugh mixed with a sob. He blinked, disbelieving as he considered, never looking away from Aziraphale’s patient eyes while he did.

_Can it really be that simple?_

“I...” he started, but his throat caught, and he had to swallow around a lump, licking his lips to prime them for the burn. “_Yes, angel._ I do. I really, _really_ do.”

That was it. Question answered. No burn, no heavy anvil of fear or guilt on his heart. Nothing but massive, solid, unshakeable truth.

Tears of joy immediately sprung to Aziraphale’s eyes, and he smiled a smile that somehow managed to illuminate his already star-bright eyes.

“Thought so,” he said, his tone attempting to be smug, but far too endeared to be anything but completely enamored.

And with that, he leaned in and pecked a sweet, simple kiss to Crowley’s lips, and settled back in behind him, pulling him close by his wings and keeping him, stunned but genuinely _happy._

As Crowley settled back into the warm sheets, shifting and curling to seek even more closeness, he found himself unable to sleep.

He just couldn’t wait until they could speak again. Until he could scream, cry, yell for Heaven and Hell to hear. _Ask me again. Ask me again, angel, so I can answer._

***September***

It became somewhat of a routine, for them. They didn’t sleep every night, as even Crowley didn’t indulge in it that often. But when they did, Aziraphale would settle in next to him, either with a book or sidling up to sleep, and he would always say it—“I love you, do you love me?”

Crowley did his best to ensure his response wasn’t mechanic, even though it was. It had been, long before the question was even asked. “What would you say to the Ritz?” “Would you take care of this blessing for me?” “Can you put the kettle on?” _“Do you love me.”_

Yes, yes, yes. Always, yes. Whatever it is, yes. So Crowley started mixing it up, changing it. Just as they had over time. Yu_p. _Ci. Da. Oui. Hai. Ita. Ja.

And Aziraphale had started using it as a coping mechanism, when his trial got him down. If he was feeling disheartened, or overwhelmed, or having ghost pains, he would seek Crowley out, and ask him. It was like a salve, a plaster, a remedy. In those moments, Crowley always added more. “Yes, I do. So, _so much.”_

Not only that, but having Crowley’s wings out while they slept, nuzzling into them and holding them close, seemed to be helping Aziraphale too—a kind of surrogate for his own. Granted, the angel’s careful and likely subconscious caresses had caused Crowley to be reintroduced to something he’d practiced himself out of long ago; morning wood. But it wasn’t as frightening a situation as it once was. Aziraphale knew he wanted him, knew he was treading a thin line by touching Crowley’s wings so often. So, occasionally Crowley would either miracle the problem away or slip to the bathroom to sort himself out. On more than one occasion, Aziraphale had been awake when Crowley hurried to the bathroom, and Crowley was certain he _saw the problem_ against his pajama bottoms. He’d even received a mischievous eyebrow lilt once—one that played into the fantasies going through his brain that made it one of the quickest wanks of his immortal life.

***October***

Aziraphale had never felt both content and stressed at the same time. It was an incredibly dizzying experience.

On the one hand, he was still struggling to cope with the loss of his wings. It had been seven months, and it still hurt just as bad as it did on day one. Not physically, per se (although there was a certain amount of phantom pains that twinged through his spine if he subconsciously tried to move them, or even just thought about them too long), but it was more of an emotional pain.

He knew there was a point, there had to be. Or he hoped there was. She was trying to teach him something. Or the angels on the council were. But he had yet to figure out what that point was—he couldn’t really see anything positive coming of stripping him of his bodily autonomy. Perhaps She _wanted _him to begin to doubt? She _wanted him _desolate and angry _at Her?_ That seemed unlikely.

But on the other hand, Crowley was absolutely _shining._ The demon wasn’t worrying about how he was being perceived, he wasn’t constantly trying to be cool, be suave, be aloof. His true colors were showing, and they were a brilliant spectrum no human eye could discern.

He’d been doting spectacularly, his selfless nature on full glorious display. He wasn’t lounging in bed like he usually did—instead he was making sure to be up before Aziraphale on most occasions (those rare occasions where Aziraphale deigned to sleep at all), and was experimenting more with cooking. He made Aziraphale frittatas, omelets, Belgian waffles, blueberry scones, apple turnovers, chocolate chip muffins, skillets of scrambled eggs, red peppers, and sausage. He even practiced his barista skills, creating complicated lattes, breves, mochas, macchiatos, and cold brews.

And when he wasn’t cooking, he was offering baths, massages, trips to the park and museums, the theatre and movies. In fact, hardly a day had gone by that they weren’t _doing things._ Even when Aziraphale expressed interest in staying in and reading a book, Crowley would insist on making him tea or cocoa, and reading _to Aziraphale._

And he knew why. Crowley was trying to distract him. It was the only way he knew how to help Aziraphale, and it was something he was incredibly good at. Aziraphale tried not to dwell on the realization that Crowley was likely good at distracting from distressing things because he’d been deploying the technique on himself for thousands of years, but it was a prevalent thought.

No more prevalent than now, when Aziraphale found him brewing tea for himself in the bookshop’s kitchen.

Aziraphale slowed as he entered, already aware through Crowley’s aura that something was wrong—it was singed red, vibrating with stress like television static. The demon’s stance wasn’t much better; his body was rigid and tight, his knuckles going white as he leaned against the counter and gripped it. His jawline was doing that angular thing it did when he was grinding his teeth. His head was bowed as he waited for the kettle, revealing a telling splotch of black-green scales protruding from under the neckline of his black button-down. And perhaps most worrisome; his sunglasses, perched high on his nose and covering his beautiful eyes.

He’d grown out of wearing them, a bit. Just with Aziraphale, but it was progress—when he was with him, his eyes were bare and earnest.

Aziraphale cleared his throat as he approached, knowing from past experience that, when Crowley was like this, he was easily startled. It did very little, because he startled anyway; one knee jerking forward to send him away from the counter and slamming into the cupboard. He released a muttered “ow,” turning to face Aziraphale and habitually pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

Aziraphale was able to watch as Crowley’s mask came over him—his aura leapt to a calmer blue, but it still vibrated wildly, and his stance relaxed, shoulders dropping and fists going slack. His jaw was still tight, though, and Aziraphale was willing to bet the scales on his spine remained.

“Oh, hey angel. I was just... I forgot to ask... do you want some tea? Ssssorry, I wasss...”

Hissing. Also not a good sign.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, chastising himself for not noticing before now.

Crowley was spread razor-thin; completely exhausted from months of worrying and doting, even more tuckered out from putting on a brave face so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see.

“How could I have been so blind,” Aziraphale groaned, hurrying forward and pulling his poor demon against him. For a moment, it was like hugging the Eiffel Tower—hard, unmoving, and unbending. Crowley softened though, if a bit falsely confused, resting an inquiring hand on Aziraphale’s back.

“Angel, what...”

“I didn’t see because I was so selfishly focused on my own troubles... my dearest, what can I do, what do you need?” Aziraphale asked, continuing to hold Crowley close but leaning away to attempt eye contact...

But those ruddy glasses.

“M-may I?” Aziraphale asked, reaching up slowly with one hand.

“Angel, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m fine-”

“You’re not. Please don’t lie to me. My dear, may I?” he asked again, hand hovering to the right of Crowley’s glasses.

He hissed a sigh, bowing his head slightly and nodding dejectedly.

Aziraphale knew he would find blown-wide pupils and fully yellow snake eyes, a clear indication of tension in his serpentine companion, and he did.

He sighed, folding the glasses and slipping them into the breast pocket of Crowley’s shirt.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally. “M’not lying, Aziraphale, really, I’m fi-”

“_Really?”_ Aziraphale asked, attempting to scold but coming up just short of tender and understanding. “So what’s this, then?”

He brushed a hand up Crowley’s back, grasping the back of his neck as if in a massage, and feeling the smooth, slick scales there.

The demon deflated with guilt, closing his eyes as he released a breath between tightly-pursed lips.

“Alright, so. Not fine. But don’t worry about me, angel, you’ve enough to-”

“Crowley, just because I’ve got something on my mind, doesn’t mean you should hide your discomfort from me. I know that you’re worried about me, and I know that you don’t wish to burden me further, but I’ll repeat this until the end of days, my dear; _you are not a burden to me,_ in any state,” Aziraphale demanded, squeezing Crowley’s neck just slightly to ground him.

As he suspected, the demon didn’t cave.

“Jusssst worried about you, is all,” he mumbled, eyes still intentionally downcast.

Aziraphale used a gentle finger under Crowley’s chin to force his gaze.

“My dear, I want you to do something for me,” he said, and pity surged through him at the way Crowley visibly brightened at the opportunity to be of service, to abandon his own needs and cater to Aziraphale’s.

“I want you to go home,” Aziraphale said, the words much harder to say than he’d expected.

Crowley deflated even further, actually looking hurt as he took a tentative step back and out of Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Wh-you-you don’t... want me here?” he asked, his voice incredibly small and wounded.

“No! No, no, no, my dear, that’s not what I mean,” Aziraphale blurted, closing that newly opened space between them and rubbing his hands up and down Crowley’s arms, feeling the tenseness in them. “I just mean...” he paused to consider his words carefully. Crowley needed to know that he didn’t _want him gone_, he wanted him _happy. _And right now, Crowley was incapable of taking care of himself, because he was putting Aziraphale’s needs above his own. “I want you to take a break from me and take care of yourself.”

Crowley still looked shocked and offended.

“I can do that here, angel, I don’t...”

“No. _No you can’t,”_ Aziraphale said sternly, silencing the demon’s protests as he pulled him close again. Perhaps this would be easier to say if he wasn’t staring in those pained saffron eyes. “My dear, you have a habit of prioritizing me. Have done for.... oh... a few millennia. Every time we’re together, you instantly discern what’s bothering me, and you endeavor to fix it. And you almost always _do!_ Whisking me away to the Ritz, tempting me to a new show on the West End, showing up unannounced right when I need a distraction, wiggling bottles of wine in my face. You’re very good at it.”

He took a deep breath in at Crowley’s chest, enjoying his familiar scent of clean earth and wood smoke.

“But you prioritize me _over yourself._ You’re stretching yourself to a breaking point, trying to keep me distracted. Oh, and I appreciate it, I truly do. You’ve made these trials bearable, and I... I’m not sure what I would have become if I didn’t have you beside me, every step of the way. But now what I need...”

He stepped back again to meet the demon’s questioning eyes.

“Is to make sure _you _are okay.”

“So I’m a little stressed!” Crowley snapped, anxiety pulling his brows in and making his shoulders rise. “But I’m...” he clearly stumbled over using the word ‘fine’ again, his mouth moving, searching silently for an acceptable synonym. “I’m better here, with you, I won’t... I can’t...”

Aziraphale was sensing an approaching panic in his counterpart like a train bearing down on him, and he held up a finger to quiet his stammering.

“Crowley.” He said it calmly, soothingly, in that way he’d developed to make the demon focus. “Do me this favor. Go home. Take a nice, hot shower. Take a nap. Go get the Bentley a car wash, I’m sure she misses you...”

“Angel, I can miracle the car clean, and it’s an inanimate object, it doesn’t-”

“Oh, in that case, I’ll just go and tell it you said that...” Aziraphale said haughtily, beginning to turn for the door.

“Bleeaaa-wai-wait,” Crowley exclaimed, waving both hands wildly and making Aziraphale feel a flood of adoration.

“Dirt is not the reason I want you to do this, love,” Aziraphale said, deciding not to force Crowley to articulate any of those difficult unformed syllables he was currently tripping over. “I want you to take a few days. Three, at the very least. And please don’t think this is because I don’t want you here, or I tire of your presence. That is absolutely untrue. As I said... I’ve only survived these trials because of you. But I _need you_ to be away from me. I need you to be unburdened by-”

“You’re not a burden, angel-”

“I know, I... burden isn’t the right word. I don’t want you stressing over-”

“I’m not, taking care of you doesn’t stress me, it’s-”

“_Crowley.”_

There was a moment in which Aziraphale just stared the demon down, his gaze burning like a sword.

“Stop arguing. You’re not going to dissuade me. Just try. For me. Please. If not for three days, then at least one. Get some rest unbothered b—ah! No telling me I’m not a bother—some rest unbothered by my hands on your wings and my nightmares in your silence. _Please, Crowley. I need to know you’re alright.”_

Defiantly impudent, Crowley continued to shake his head for a moment before he finally gave in, his whole body going lax against Aziraphale and a long, shaky sigh leaving his lips. He pushed in, his forehead resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was muffled and pathetic against the angel’s clothing.

_“M’sorry ‘Ziraphale. Tried t’be strong fr’you...”_

“Sshhhhh, you were. _You are_,” Aziraphale cooed, stroking Crowley’s hair. “You’ve been an excellent caretaker. But I will be alright for a few days. Might get bit weepy, but I’ll be _fine. _I need to feel those things, and I don’t need you to bring me out of it every time. And it’s not your responsibility, either...”

“It is though,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Or I want it to be...”

“I know that. I know,” Aziraphale said, struck suddenly by the altruism of _a demon._ “You’re just... taking a break. Its sorbet!”

Crowley giggled, and the sound made a thrill go through Aziraphale.

“What?” the demon asked, confusion plain as pudding on his face as he pulled back.

“You know. Like at the Ritz. A palate cleanser. Something they bring you between courses. To get you ready for the next one. You’re just... getting ready.”

Crowley smiled, but it was bittersweet. “Only you could make this about food,” he said in a fond tone barely masquerading as astonishment. His face fell, though, and he returned his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder, a hand wrapping loosely around his waist. “Who’s gonna make you breakfast? And bring you tea? And read to you?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, feeling like he might cry at the childlike desperation in Crowley’s voice.

“My dear... and don’t take this the wrong way, but... I’m perfectly capable of doing those things for myself.”

Crowley’s barked laugh was hot against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he felt a very sudden and very potent need to reassure his wonderful demon.

He pulled away slightly, using a single finger to maneuver Crowley’s chin inward and toward him. He took a brief moment to admire those thin, soft lips, the adjacent cheeks growing pink as he did.

He leaned in, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to Crowley’s, swimming in the euphoric sensation and melodic whimper the kiss caused. When he eventually pulled away, he found that Crowley’s eyes were closed too, and he took the opportunity to purse and lick his lips with that talented forked tongue. Its appearance threatened to tempt Aziraphale back in, but he resisted.

“Please, love. Go take care of yourself. I’ll be right here when you’re ready,” he whispered, his words cascading over Crowley’s kiss-wet lips in their closeness. The demon tried to stifle the shudder, but it was evident in the way his shoulders readjusted.

“M’always ready,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale felt what Crowley must have, as the demon’s warm words sent a wave of want over his own lips as well.

“Mmmm,” he affirmed, both out of acknowledgment and desire. “I know. But take a day. I’d prefer the three, but if you find that you just can’t, I won’t admonish you for popping back in after 24 hours.”

Crowley took a very deep breath in, likely cataloguing Aziraphale’s scent (he only suspected this because he frequently did it to Crowley), held it, then pressed it out in a semi-hiss.

“Alright, angel. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not. But it’s what _you need, _Crowley. You are not my keeper. I know you wish to be, and perhaps I will let you, someday. But for now... _please, love, please...” _his voice caught in his throat, and he instead used his hand, petting through Crowley’s hair to finish the sentiment.

The demon nodded, slowly and regretfully pulling away. He continued nodding, but judging by the way his lips were tightly pursed and his Adam’s Apple bobbed, he seemed incapable of speaking.

“You can obviously stay and finish your tea, dear,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to pop the kettle open when it started howling.

Crowley shook his head.

“Was only making it to... to...”

“Try to calm down?” Aziraphale asked, already knowing it was the answer.

Crowley nodded. “Help yourself,” he said brokenly, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes as he practically stumbled to the door.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called before he could open the door. “If you grow upset, and become self-destructive, just come right back. I want you to rest and recuperate, but I know how you are. You’ll get too into your own head, and you... you have a tendency to... well... I shall be very cross if you hurt yourself, alright? If that’s what it comes to, you come straight here. I won’t be upset if you find you can’t do it. Understand?”

Crowley looked like he didn’t want to agree, and that was the kicker—if he promised Aziraphale, he was less likely to break that promise.

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley mumbled, staring down at the area rug in the foyer.

“And Crowley?”

He said in a way that demanded attention, demanded _those eyes_, and Crowley eventually looked up.

“I love you. Do you love me?”

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat like a whine.

“So much it hurts, angel,” he said, spinning and disappearing from the shop.

* * *

Crowley was already falling apart before the lift doors closed. He hardly remembered the drive back to his flat, only really recalled several hasty miracles, some screams, and an astronomical number showing on the speedometer. He could have simply used the portal in the bookshop to get back to his Mayfair flat, but there were two problems with that; one, he’d leave the Bentley parked outside the shop, and two... he was feeling a fair bit of destructive rage coming on, and he didn’t want the angel to hear him slam the door.

He growled to himself, sparing another frivolous miracle to ensure no one called for the lift while he was in it, ripped his sunglasses off, and slammed his forehead against the sleek chrome door, feeling it vibrate slightly as it slowly ascended.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could you not have noticed?! You were a hovering menace, annoying him with your constant doting attentions. He had a great hole ripped in him, and you thought you could fill it. Bloody stupid. You?! Fill the hole that stolen wings left? WINGS? A gift from God? You thought you were good enough for that?_

_He grew tired of your unyielding presence. Should have backed off, learned to understand when he wanted space. He felt obligated to keep you around until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Bloody useless _demon_ you are. So fucking desperate._

He jerked when the lift released its normally tranquil little _ding, _the familiar sound echoing in his mind like a fog horn. He grumbled, stomping out into the hallway and waving his hand grumpily at the door. It flew open, giving the impression of fleeing prey as it slammed back against the wall.

Crowley stalked inside, eyeing everything for its breaking value. TV, good. Nice shattering glass sound, possible electric sparks. Couch, bad. Bulky, awkward, and sometimes a nice napping spot. Coffee table... very good. Covered in useless shit, easy to flip dramatically. Bonus—useless shit then available for kicking.

Before he could do any of that, however, he half-turned to see the vibrant sun-filtered green spilling in from the next room.

He snarled, grabbing the nearest piece of bric-à-brac (a small carved stone snake sculpture, conveniently baseball-bat sized), and slithered into the midst of his pseudo-garden.

“Grown lasszzzzy, have we?” se hissed, holding the sculpture out toward the ferns threateningly. “The witch comes by to care for you a few times while I’m gone, and suddenly you disregard everything I’ve taught you. What’s this?! Drooping leaves? Spots?” he perched the wide open maw of the snake sculpture beneath a broad leaf, raising it up to scrutinizing level, and allowing the extended fangs to barely graze the leaf’s veins. “Have you forgotten what happens to failures like you? Have you forgotten _what you are?!_ You’re _mine,_ and I choose who’s good enough. I say whether your pathetic efforts are enough. _I say whether you stay or go._ And let me tell you... _my fingers are itching. _Perhaps I’ll cast you _all out,_ and start over with a batch that’s less bloody _pathetic...”_

Crowley wasn’t sure if he’d raised the sculpture with actual intent, but regardless, the phone rang and stopped whatever it was he’d been planning.

He growled, allowing the sculpture to clatter to the slate floor, storming into the office and yanking the phone off the cradle.

“Wot?” he snapped.

“Hello, love.”

Crowley suddenly felt a chill of guilt.

“Oh, er... hey angel. What... what, erm...”

“I didn’t send you away because I was tired of your presence. I didn’t send you away because I found you tedious. _I sent you away because I love you, _and I want you to take a moment to put all of that effort into _yourself._ Now... I know what you’re doing. Do you need to come back?”

Crowley swallowed convulsively, suddenly feeling very childish.

“No,” he mumbled. He desperately wanted to go back, but he also wanted to give Aziraphale what he’d asked for. Aziraphale had challenged him to take at least a day for himself, and surely he could do that? Surely? “M’fine.”

“_Are you certain?”_

Crowley sighed, feeling the pulsating rage leaving his lips and making him feel like a deflating balloon.

“Yes, angel. I... forgot for a second. M’fine now.”

“Alright. May I make a request?”

“Sure...” Crowley said, suspicious.

“Stop threatening the poor plants, they didn’t do anything to deserve it. Take a warm shower. Cuddle up on your couch with that blanket I gave you. Pour a glass of wine. Watch the Golden Girls. Fall asleep. _Relax._ I’ll be here in my shop, doing the same thing with a nice book. I’ll be alright, Crowley, really. I truly appreciate all you’ve done for me. And I still need you, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve taught me how to form my own coping mechanisms, perhaps not long term, but... for a day or two. So I’ll be fine. Please take care of yourself. That’s all I’m asking. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Crowley was quiet. On some level, he knew exactly what Aziraphale was doing. By making it a request, a favor... he was ensuring Crowley had to comply. Because he couldn’t say no to his angel. He had to make him proud, had to make him _happy._ Part of the Arrangement. _He’s asked you to do something for him._

“Crowley?” The metallic buzz of Aziraphale’s voice sounded worried. “I won’t be cross if you tell me you can’t.”

Crowley was at an impasse. He wanted to give his angel what he asked for, but he didn’t understand why he couldn’t do all that _with Aziraphale._

_Why can’t I shower at your place? Why can’t I curl up on the couch _with you_,__ polish off a bottle of Château Pétrus _with you_, fall asleep _with you_.__ Sure, I used to love doing all of these things alone, but that was when we had to stay apart, to avoid raising suspicion. These things are empty without you now. I don’t want them anymore._

“_Crowley, dearest?”_

The endearment was like a shock of electricity in his ear, and he inhaled hard.

“Yep, good. Can-do, angel.”

Aziraphale’s resulting “mmhmm” was incredibly unconvinced.

“Alright,” he said flatly. “As I said. If you find yourself unable to do this, come straight back.”

“M’kay,” Crowley grumbled, slamming the phone back into the receiver.

He moped into the plant room, bending to snatch the snake sculpture from the floor, feeling wrung-out and no longer in the mood.

“Be grateful you’ve got an angel on your side,” he growled at the plants. “He’s much more tolerant of broken things than I am.”

With that, he shuffled into the bathroom, starting the shower and tossing the sculpture to the nearest acceptable location.

As he suspected, the things that used to be his escape held no enjoyment, without the promise of Aziraphale’s presence. Now his flat was just a giant reminder of what Satan had done here. The living room wasn’t welcoming and warm and dark, it was littered with phantom images of torn feathers, spilled blood, and agonized screams.

Crowley blanched at the thought, so he blew off anything he might have done in the living room, grabbed his blanket, and crawled into bed.

It had never felt so empty, despite having nearly always been so. Now he was distinctly aware of how big the bed was, and no amount of stuffing pillows around him was good enough to simulate the warm, otherworldly weight of Aziraphale next to him. No amount of hugging that angelic blanket to his chest was potent enough, and he found himself desperately craving the angel’s grabby, greedy hands in his wings as he tossed and turned.

With a frustrated grunt, he called on his demonic reserves, shifting form and twisting tightly, painfully around his angel blanket, desperately trying to get closer. Perhaps a more primal form would help him turn his ruddy mile-a-minute brain off.

Sleeping in snake form was wildly different than sleeping in man (shaped) form. For starters, snakes had no eyelids. Granted Crowley hadn’t known this early on, so his did, but when he found out (sometime during the asp hysteria of ancient Egypt, if memory served), his subconscious took over the accuracy, and he found that he couldn’t bring them back no matter how hard he tried.

It used to be useful; when he was feeling paranoid, he would sleep in his snake form. He still received information from his eyes, even if he was unconscious and dreaming. It was certainly helpful, when one expected to be snuck up on when he was most vulnerable.

It was jarring, though, like two television screens overlaid on top of one another—one his dreams, the other his reality. So when Crowley had a brief, vivid nightmare of a certain bookshop up in flames, coupled with a huge, empty, angel-less flat, he decided grumpily that sleeping was a no-go.

He peered at the digital clock on his nightstand, his serpentine eyes telling him it had only been four hours since Aziraphale sent him away.

“Sssssshit,” he hissed, willing himself back into something vaguely human.

Or he tried. Absolutely nothing happened on the first go, and on the second, his massive wings sprouted from his long spine, but otherwise nothing else changed. If he weren’t so busy immediately panicking, he might have laughed and called himself a dragon.

He managed to hide his wings away again, but when he tried a third time to shift back, he nearly screamed to find a single arm poking out from his coils. He kept trying, but simply descended into worse and worse hysteria as pieces of a human body appeared, poking out of his scales like some kind of macabre, poorly-stitched doll.

With massive effort, he was able to banish the limbs, but felt his vision tunneling and his breaths coming shorter and shorter.

_Come on, focus. You can’t go back yet, you haven’t even made it _half of one day._ Aziraphale asked you to give it one day, at the very least._

_But you’re stuck, now. Stuck in a non-human form. You hate this, fear this. You need his help. Ask him. He will oblige._

_No! No he won’t! He’ll think you’re pathetic and clingy! Don’t tell him, don’t..._

_“Fuck,” _he said, happy that the word had no sibilants.

He slithered from the bed clumsily, his long body slapping to the slate floor. It was cold, _so cold,_ against his delicate belly scales, and he found himself vowing to re-floor the whole bloody flat as he made his way toward the portal door.

* * *

Sending Crowley away had an unintended side effect—Aziraphale was no longer thinking about his stolen wings. Hadn’t, in fact, thought about them once since the demon disappeared from the shop.

Now he was simply dithering madly—pacing the shop and wringing his hands, wondering all the while if he’d done the right thing.

He’d been confident in the decision... before. He knew Crowley needed a break, knew he was stressed beyond his breaking point. And he’d thought forcing him to take some “me-time” was the answer.

But he knew Crowley, knew how wound up in his own brain he could become, and in worst case scenarios, even became self-destructive. It was why Aziraphale immediately called the flat after Crowley had left, several hours ago. He knew Crowley was likely spiraling, and he had to be sure Crowley understood.

But had Crowley lied to him? He said he understood, said he would try. But was he simply doing as he’d done, all those months ago in the cottage—sinking his fangs into his own palm to punish himself, and making sure Aziraphale didn’t know? And would he come back, as Aziraphale had asked him to if he became agitated, or would he consider himself a failure, and just wallow in the flat, hurting himself and keeping from “disappointing” Aziraphale?

Aziraphale sighed, trying for the fourth time to comprehend the paragraph in front of him.

No sooner had he done so, a loud _thump_ resounded from the direction of the stairs, and he worriedly snapped the book closed.

“Crowley?” he asked, hurrying into the foyer. The portal door to the demon’s Mayfair flat was sitting open, and worry flooded him.

“Crowley?” he asked again, louder this time as he ascended the stairs.

As focused as he was on the open door, he nearly tripped over the demon, all fifteen+ feet of him, coiled and absolutely _vibrating_ on the landing.

“_Crowley! I almost stepped on you, what—”_

_“_Ssssstuck, angel. Help me, pleassssse...” the poor serpent hissed, coiling up defensively tight into a pose that, if it were any other snake, Aziraphale would be very weary of.

As it was, he was quite fond of Crowley’s snake form. The scales were smooth and cool, and his body rippled with spring-loaded muscle. His eyes were always unnaturally bright, the yellow color popping against deep black scales. And that tongue, _oh, that adorable tongue,_ flashing out and tasting the air in an entirely too-cute way. And the knowledge that it was still very much _Crowley_ under there, well... it was reassuring. It reminded him that this would-be predator would never strike at him, but he sure would make a show of pretending to.

“Stuck?” Aziraphale asked, slowly lowering himself to sit on the landing opposite the serpent. “How do you mean, stuck? _Stuck like this?”_

Crowley nodded that boxy serpent head, managing to bring a dejected expression to his features as his long tongue flared out repeatedly.

“Okay, alright... er...” Aziraphale began, shuffling through possibilities in his mind.

He’d seen Crowley get stuck before. It was one of Crowley’s biggest fears, in fact, getting stuck in any non-human form and forgetting how to turn back. And the times Aziraphale had seen it happen, it was due to monumental stress overriding rational thought in Crowley’s brain.

And it was fairly clear this was the cause now—the entire pile of coils was shaking like a rattlesnake, and his long, thin body was expanding and deflating rapidly with panting breaths. Those breaths squeaked on every exhale through that small, pointed nose, and were it not due to the massive amount of tension causing it, Aziraphale would have fawned.

“Okay. Come here, come closer,” he commanded, and Crowley obediently slithered forward, raising his head from the hardwood. Aziraphale lovingly held his palm out, allowing Crowley’s head to rest there and pulling him a bit more upright, staring into those lovely honey gold eyes.

“Big deep breath,” he asked, watching as Crowley obeyed, his sleek long form expanding briefly. “Good. Now, _focus._ Two arms, two legs. Two very long, lanky legs.”

Crowley giggled, and in his snake form it came out as another charming squeaky hiss.

“Hands that no artist could hope to render; long, spindly fingers, perfect for holding. Fingertips ever so delicate, despite what one might assume of a demon. A tall, lean torso. Neck like a carved Grecian column,” Aziraphale said with a smile, pulling another giggle from the serpent.

“Sssssspend a lot of time looking, do you?” Crowley asked, much more relaxed now, to Aziraphale’s soaring joy.

Aziraphale beamed. “Yes, actually. Now, back to focusing. The rest. Er... skin! Yes. Skin like sun-kissed sand, hair the color of wine-red flames, but pliant as clouds. The eyes you mustn’t change, of course, and let’s see... what else?”

He rubbed a thumb back and forth against the side of Crowley’s head, and to his delight, his tongue flashed out appreciatively.

“A beautiful pointed nose, practically made for a pair of Givenchy sunglasses. High, angular cheekbones, very handsome.”

Perhaps it was only because Crowley believed it was possible, but Aziraphale swore the serpent actually _blushed._

“And of course the lips. Oh, what can I say about those lips? What _can’t _I say, really? Thin and expressive, but so soft and tempting. When they smile, my heart stops, when they frown I am spurred into action. And _oh, to kiss them!”_

Just like that, with a _pop _and a _thud,_ Crowley was man-shaped again, crouching on the landing and clad in his black silk pajamas. Immediately off-balance, he fell backward, his spine colliding with and sliding down the iron handrail as his long legs spilled out in front of him.

“There you are,” Aziraphale tutted affectionately.

Crowley wasn’t in the mood, apparently.

He launched forward, grasping Aziraphale’s lapels in two desperate fists, collapsing forward and burying his face against the angel’s collar bone.

“Don’t make me do that again, please angel, don’t make me, don’t—” he pleaded, somewhat muffled, into Aziraphale’s clothes.

Aziraphale hushed him, stroking his hair. “Crowley, I—”

_“Those things used to be how I took care of myself, but that was _then,_ this is _now!_ Yes, I’m stressed when I’m with you, but it’s only because I’m worried _about you! _I get where you were coming from, I do, I know you care about me, and you don’t want me overexerting myself on your behalf, but... angel I don’t want to sleep if it’s not next to you, I don’t want to drive that car if you’re not in it. I don’t want to wander around that big empty flat, alone, like I’ve always done. I don’t have to anymore! I know you wanted me to take a day, at least, and I know I failed, but I can’t... not anymore, that’s not... you can’t cast me out too, please, you can’t...”_

“Crowley! Crowley, hush now, I understand,” Aziraphale interrupted the demon’s vicious word vomit, heartbroken as he continued to stroke his hair and pulling him closer with his free hand. “I understand. I’m sorry I sent you away, I thought it would help, I really did, but I didn’t consider... I just... I’m still thinking pre-Armageddon.”

At that, a proverbial light bulb went off in his head, and he tapped Crowley’s shoulder to suggest he lean back.

“I’ve an idea, my dear. Come downstairs?”

Crowley seemed loathe to pull away, but he composed himself nonetheless, rising to shaky legs and following Aziraphale down to the back room.

Aziraphale wasn’t one for miracling tea, as it seemed to lack a certain flavor that naturally brewed tea did, but he forewent that aversion in favor of settling Crowley down on the couch and immediately handing him a steaming cup of oolong.

In the past, he would have sat opposite Crowley, in his favorite plush chair. As it was, he sat right next to him, shoulder pressed to his.

“My dear, I think... I think it’s about time we amended our Arrangement.”

When Crowley’s eyes widened in horror, Aziraphale hurried to clarify.

“Those agreements were made under the controlling fists of both Heaven and Hell. Given that you’re relatively free of that grip, and I’m... er... well... still choking a bit, but at least I’m putting up a decent fight.”

Crowley looked like he tried to smile, but his anxiety turned it into more of a cringe.

“So,” Aziraphale began, suddenly feeling like he was standing in Parliament giving a speech in his skivvies. He pivoted slightly, turning to face Crowley more intentionally, reaching out to rest a hand on the demon’s bony wrist.

“I’ll start,” Aziraphale began anew, clearing his throat nervously. “Crowley. The point of the Arrangement was to aid each other in a professional capacity. You scratch my back, I scratch yours... type of... thing.” Aziraphale waved his free hand wildly as he spoke, making Crowley grin momentarily. “But given that you’re retired, in a manner of speaking, I propose some amendments.”

Crowley looked at him like he’d suggested they take up underwater basket weaving.

“One; I promise to protect you from the wraths of both Heaven and Hell, should they arise. I shall treat any enemy of yours as an enemy of mine.

“Two; my self-assigned purpose, as a semi-retired agent of Heaven, shall be your undying happiness. I shall endeavor to always make you smile, but be present when that’s not possible. Your suffering, like your joy, shall be my responsibility and my burden to bear.

“Three...” at that point, his voice broke with emotion, and he had to swallow a lump in his throat before continuing. “I shall never be far from you, on this, our haven, our Earth. As our only home now, I will ensure that Earth is nothing but a source of comfort to you. I will never send you away against your will, I will never cause you grief or loneliness. Your presence is not a burden to me, and as such, if you’d like to cling to me like a barnacle, then I shall read every book on boats ever written, and become one.”

Crowley laughed, the sound slightly frantic but sweet. He leaned away to set his tea down, and Aziraphale thought he saw him quickly reach up to swipe a tear from his cheek, but it could have just been an itch.

“And lastly...” Aziraphale said, feeling his voice wavering like a ship on rocky seas. He migrated his hand up Crowley’s wrist, briefly feeling the demon’s pulse at his fingertip and delighting in it as he nudged into his palm to hold it, gentle but secure. He closed his other atop it, caging it in, and as he did, he recalled a moment, roughly 5000 years ago, similar to this yet not at all. He’d taken the demon’s hand tentatively in his, _impersonally, _giving it a quick, nervous shake before abandoning it with haste. _I agree, _he’d said. _I agree,_ Crowley had replied, something broken and longing in his eyes.

“Love,” Aziraphale went on, his lips feeling sluggish. “Your heart will be my Eden; I will guard it fiercely, with all the flames within me that burn for you, and only you. Pardon my blasphemy, but... I will devote myself to you as I did to Her, I will cherish and worship you as I did Her. My faith is not broken, simply redirected. You are the rock upon which I build my church, and I’ll attend service every single day, humbled and grateful. She made me to love, and _by God _I will. With every vast fibre of my endless celestial soul, I will. With the innumerable eyes of my primal form, I will watch over you. With the wings...”

His voice caught as he became aware of their aching absence. Crowley squeezed his hand in encouragement.

“With the wings She gave to me, I’ll shelter you from the beating sun, the pouring rain. No matter if She’s taken them from me or not. In their absence, I shall be as Daedalus, crafting my own from wax and pages. For as long as my eternal heart beats... everlasting, unshakeable... _ineffable_,” he paused to rub his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand, and dig up some old Shakespeare in the far recesses of his memory. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. _That is my new agreement.”_

Crowley released another frantic bark of divine laughter, and now Aziraphale could clearly see tears. The demon was staring down at their joined hands, and when he spoke, his voice was small and weak.

“A-angel, those... those s-ssssound like w-wedding vows...”

Aziraphale smiled. “Ah. I suppose they do. Well... if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck... it’s probably a duck.”

Crowley laughed again, harder this time, his hand squeezing Aziraphale’s more firmly.

“You are _ridiculous_,” he said, bringing Aziraphale’s knuckles to his lips and pressing a simple, warm kiss there.

“Well that won’t do,” Aziraphale tutted, gently pulling his hand free, much to a demon’s dismay. He guided his hands to either side of Crowley’s neck, holding him like a prayer and leaning in for a long, deep kiss. Crowley sighed into it, his hands slithering around Aziraphale’s waist cautiously.

When he pulled back, he did so by millimeters, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s.

“Erm, about the Arrangement,” he said, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s kiss-bitten lips. “Ditto,” he finished, eloquently.

Aziraphale giggled, immeasurably charmed.

“Right.” And with that, he swooped in, twisting Crowley and pulling him all the way in to recline on the couch against Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley squeaked in surprise, but nonetheless allowed himself to be angel handled.

“So, what would you say to that Golden Girls marathon?” he asked, waving a hand to summon the old RCA from the bookshop flat, which had seen its hay day in roughly 1983. But because he believed it would, it worked perfectly, with a clean picture and crisp sound, and because he believed it would, it started playing an episode of The Golden Girls, despite not having a power source, signal receiver, or VCR connection.

Crowley hummed in pleasure, snuggling in against Aziraphale’s chest. “Thankssss, angel,” he hissed lazily.

Aziraphale spared another hasty miracle to summon Crowley’s blanket from his flat, and it settled over the demon’s long, sinuous form atop him, cascading over both of them and off the edge of the couch. Crowley sighed, his muscles releasing that last bit of tension.

“Welcome, love.”


	53. A Brief Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ for language. 
> 
> And SO MUCH FLUFF.

On the morning of the final day of Aziraphale’s humility trial, both of them were as jittery as a live wire. Aziraphale was experiencing excitement and apprehension in equal measure, pacing first the flat, and then the bookshop so rapidly that Crowley worried he’d put a rut in the floors.

It was then that he had shown Aziraphale the calendar marking every single day he’d gone without his wings. Several days had special markings, not just the tick mark signifying another day down, and Crowley spent the next several hours explaining. _Here is where you were so strong, rising from bed when you didn’t want to. Here is when you kissed me in the bath at the cottage, this is when you asked for my wings. This is when you changed our arrangement._

Many of the specially marked moments had included a kiss, all of them so memorable to Crowley that he could still taste them on his lips. Aziraphale was so endeared by this that he gave him another one, which Crowley promptly marked on the calendar with a smiley face.

After that, they went for a walk in St. James, and for the first time in over a year, Aziraphale didn’t sigh longingly at the glistening wet wings of the ducks, the fluttering feathers of the geese. This time, his eyes gleamed to see them, childlike enthusiasm lighting up his angelic features.

When they returned to the shop, both of them were starting to get nervous. _When will she be here, she should be here by now, shouldn’t she? Is it a year from the moment she took them? The end of the business day?! Midnight?! This isn’t bloody Cinderella!_

So Crowley did what he did best—distracted his angel with pleasantness.

“No, no, angel, you put the corn starch in later, when it’s boiling. To thicken it,” Crowley said, waving the angel’s hand away from the saucepan.

“Oh! Right!” Aziraphale barked, setting down the canister. “So what now?”

Crowley set down the pecans he’d been chopping, and joined the angel by his side to scrutinize the angel’s handiwork.

“Wine,” he said, admiring Aziraphale’s valiant attempt at the beginnings of clam sauce.

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale yelped as he reached for the bottle of Pinot Grigio Crowley had opened, happily bringing it to his lips and taking a long swig.

Crowley laughed harder than he had in a very long time, and Aziraphale lowered the bottle to give him a quizzical look.

“N-no, Aziraphale, put the wine _in the sauce, _you silly wino, you.”

Aziraphale reddened like a pretty, ripe apple.

“Oh,” he said bashfully, turning and wiggling his fingers at the measuring cups. “Which one?”

Crowley wiped his hands of the residual flower onto the apron he’d miracled up (a heavy black canvas one that read “If you can’t handle the hellfire, get out of the kitchen”), and approached. “Quarter of a cup, but a very _liberal quarter, _if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Aziraphale replied, abandoning the measuring cup and simply tipping the bottle into the sauce for a few hearty _glugs._

Crowley giggled again, returning to his dessert preparation and checking on the pasta water as he did. The window above the sink was propped open, and the lovely, bustling sound of SoHo was trickling in. Aziraphale had put on some Schubert, and it lightly played along to the roil of bubbling water and humming angel. Crowley wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be his new favorite sound on Earth—a riotous orchestra of all his favorite things.

“When did you learn to do all this, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, taking another sip from the bottle.

“Oh, picked up a thing or two over time, couldn’t avoid it, really. But I actually honed the skill when...” he paused, loathe to bring up something so morose.

“When I was staying in bed all day, when this all began?” Aziraphale asked, briefly reaching out to brush his hand affectionately down Crowley’s arm. His fingertips said _I understand, _his touch whispered _nothing could ruin my mood right now._

Crowley felt himself react—tension leaving his muscles, a sigh leaving his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up the cleaver and returning to chopping pecans. “Miracled a copy of every prominent chef’s book, trying all of them. Some went well, some didn’t. Throw the linguini in, would you?” he interrupted himself, motioning to the pot with his elbow.

Aziraphale complied as Crowley went on, “I’m a better saucier than I am a baker, but I did nail a few things. This chocolate banana bread being one of them.”

“Can’t wait to try it, dear,” Aziraphale said with a genuine smile, but it fell a little. “I wasn’t... er... eating much at the time, where did all that food go?”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to blush. “Oh, erm, I just... well, you know, since you were... and I don’t... really...”

Aziraphale’s brows inched up his forehead, a crooked, knowing grin tilting his plush lips.

“_Justsentemtosheltersandstuff_, no big de-”

Before he could finish the sentence, Aziraphale had swooped in, grabbed the front of Crowley’s apron, and yanked him in for a deep, heart-stopping kiss. Crowley melted, forgetting his bloody name for a moment.

“Shit, Aziraphale, she could be here any minute, she could see-”

“_I don’t care, dear. _I know I said I did, but... recent events have shown me that I don’t. I don’t have to explain my love, least of all to Michael. In fact, I’m considering snogging those fiery demonic lips of yours right off your lovely face when she shows up, just to spite her,” Aziraphale said, wiggling smugly.

“_Bloody heaven,” _Crowley said under his breath, then, louder, but with hardly any real censure, “well... hasn’t anyone ever told you not to distract someone who’s holding a knife?”

Aziraphale shrugged, taking another sip of wine. “Knife wounds can be healed with a thought. But my lips, without yours, cannot.”

Crowley felt like his heart was boiling alongside the damn linguini.

“Alright, ya ruddy drunk, romantic _sap,_ stir the pasta, would you?” he said, reaching over and snatching the wine from the angel before he could spew any more poetry.

The meal was wonderful—Aziraphale was a quick study, especially where cooking was concerned, and nailed the timing on the clams and corn starch. The linguini was perfectly al dente, the sauce was thick but not clumpy, and the clams were warm but not chewy.

If he did say so himself, Crowley’s chocolate banana bread was absolutely sensational, the caramel drizzle he threw together at the last minute giving it the perfect sweetness overload. Not so sweet, however, as the long, passionate, slightly desperate kiss that Aziraphale gave him after finishing his piece.

So, when the knock came on the door, Crowley was in a blissed-out state of relaxation, and couldn’t be bothered to panic.

Aziraphale gave him a strange look, standing slowly from the table.

“Odd,” he said flatly, walking for the door. “She never knocks, just comes right in...”

“Perhaps she’s learned some manners?” Crowley quipped, standing and collecting their dishes from the table. As he began depositing them in the sink, he could hear Aziraphale’s falsely welcoming tone as he allowed the Archangel inside.

Crowley deliberately didn’t turn to greet her, didn’t even acknowledge her presence. He simply began scrubbing. He could have miracled them clean, but then his unoccupied hands would be free to strangle the Archangel so hard she’d forget she didn’t need to breathe. So... scrubbing dishes.

“Mmm, what is that smell, it’s _divine?” _Michael’s voice said as she was clearly led into the back room.

“Ah. Yes, that’ll be Crowley’s banana bread. A wonder in the kitchen, that one. Would you like a piece?” Aziraphale asked, yet again falsely polite.

Crowley felt an immediate and intense urge to scream “_I made it for you, not for her, she can’t have any!”_

But that would be childish. So Crowley simply scrubbed harder on a plate that had been clean a while ago.

“Er, no, Aziraphale, th-thank you though,” Michael said, and Crowley scoffed at the struggle in her voice as she forced out the gratitude. “I am just here to... well, to bring an end to your trial. I shan’t stay long.”

Again, Crowley felt like barking “good, leave!”

He set the plate on the drying rack and turned, but kept his distance—perching his rear against the counter and watching with a hawk’s precision as Michael eyed him in return.

“Turn round, please,” Michael said in a business-like tone, making a spinning motion with one long, spindly finger.

Aziraphale turned, and suddenly Crowley found himself eye-to-eye with his angel, and what he saw there shattered whatever was left of the demon’s tattered black heart.

A cacophonous tumult of emotions was waging war in the angel’s eyes—teary relief, sorrow, and most of all, excitement. The angel was positively bouncing with it, his elation at the prospect of ‘being whole’ again showing plainly on his features. It made Crowley both happy and furious. His angel had been torn apart so thoroughly by Heaven that even the thought of having what should have been his to begin with made him giddy with excitement.

Michael cleared her throat, and suddenly Crowley realized she was staring at him.

She jerked her head toward Aziraphale. “Would you... erm, he may fall...”

Crowley didn’t miss the subtle panic in Aziraphale’s eyes, before he realized she’d meant the lowercase ‘fall.’ Crowley growled quietly as he stepped forward.

“Name’s Crowley. Just saying it won’t damn you,” he grumbled, approaching Aziraphale and taking his hands. With a surge of pity, he realized they were trembling quite badly.

“Brace yourself,” Michael said, placing her hands on Aziraphale’s back. The angel tensed hard, his hands gripping Crowley’s so tightly they hurt.

It was similar to when the angel’s wings had been taken; a bright flash of light filled the entire bookshop, and Crowley had to slam his eyes shut to avoid temporary blindness. Aziraphale gasped, his hands tightening even more on Crowley’s.

As Michael had surmised, as soon as it was over, Aziraphale let out a wail and collapsed, but Crowley was there to catch him. The angel shook viciously in his grasp, obviously struggling with the flood of emotions.

Crowley held him tightly, his vision now full to the brim with shining white feathers.

“A-_angel...” _he whispered, releasing Aziraphale’s arm to first rub his back, then bravely migrating inward to barely brush a finger over the down at the joints.

Crowley heard Michael’s huff of indignation and shock as she witnessed the intimacy of a demon touching an angel’s wing, but Crowley payed it no mind. Perhaps she’d even learn a little something about trust.

Aziraphale stiffened, his labored breaths going quiet, and his trembling dying down. With wide, disbelieving eyes, he brought both wings in, until they cocooned him, and partly Crowley too. It gave them a brief moment of privacy, in which Crowley tipped the angel’s face up by the chin to look at him.

“They’re back, angel. And it’s real. It’s not a dream. _You have your wings_.”

Aziraphale slowly, still disbelieving, broke the eye contact with Crowley, analyzing the closest white feather and reaching for it.

The moment his fingertips brushed the vane, Aziraphale released a heart-wrenching and desperate sob, grabbing a handful of feathers.

_“Oh, thank God. Thank you, thank you... I... oh, I missed them so much, I can’t...”_

Crowley hushed him quietly, offering out a hand in a gesture that tried to say “_Michael is still here,”_ but really just said, “_here, I’ll be your rock, your pillar. Lean on me, I’ll be whatever you need. And also, I’d like it noted, fuck Michael.”_

Aziraphale took his hand, nodding in understanding and wiping a tear away as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“M-my apologies, Michael,” he stuttered, and Crowley noticed that, once standing, he didn’t drop his hand. “Just... a-a little emotional...”

Judging by the quick downward gaze, the Archangel noticed the hand-holding but didn’t comment. In fact, there was something in her eyes almost... sympathetic?

“It’s er... quite alright, Aziraphale. I know this trial was difficult for you. I’ll... er... allow you some time to... erm... recover.”

With that, she spun quickly, tugging on the bottom hem of her jumper to straighten it primly as she made for the door.

“But _wait, _my... my next trial?” Aziraphale asked, his voice broken and confused. He’d taken a single step forward to follow the Archangel, but still clung to Crowley’s hand. “That was only six. A-aren’t there seven? For the virtues?”

Michael half-turned back to look at Aziraphale, and suddenly Crowley felt like he was going to vomit.

That look... that _look _on her face... it was sad and worried, daring to be _almost_ empathetic. And anything that could make the bloody Archangel _Michael_ look like that...

“Yes, Aziraphale. There is another. But given the, erm... _trying _nature of this previous one, the council has deigned that a brief respite is in order. Raziel will be by in a few days to deliver your final test. Good day, Principality.”

With that, Michael was gone, the sizzle of disintegrated divinity giving the bookshop a brief metallic scent, like recently-struck lightning.

Crowley wanted to dwell on Michael’s cryptic expression, but no sooner had the Archangel left, Aziraphale erupted.

He took a large step away from Crowley, beating his wings furiously and smiling wider than he had in a year. It was impossible to be upset when the sight reminded Crowley of the happy little ducks on the pond at St. James’s, fluttering and flapping their wings when they found a nice hunk of rye. The draft caused by the massive appendages sent feathers and pages alike flying like snow. Crowley felt his heart skip a few beats (which isn’t dangerous at all for the likes of him, it simply signifies overwhelming emotion) as he beheld his angel—a vision like a glittering Christmas snow globe, feathers and pages twirling around him in a sight so otherworldly and beautiful Crowley briefly wondered if he was dreaming.

“Oh, _it feels so good to have them back,_ I... I...” Aziraphale yelped gleefully, pausing in his flapping to stretch them as wide as they would go. They knocked a few books from the shelves, but the angel would care about that later. For now, he seemed simply ecstatic.

Which gave Crowley an idea.

“Come with me,” he snapped, rushing forward and grabbing the angel’s hand. He practically dragged him along, hurrying through the foyer and toward the stairs.

“My dear, slow down, what...”

“Just _come on, angel!”_ Crowley said excitedly, pulling the angel along up the stairs and through the portal to his Mayfair flat.

Aziraphale bumbled and questioned some more, especially when Crowley hurried _out his front door_ and into the stair well.

But those questions halted when Crowley shoved through a previously locked steel door, revealing the barren metal roof of the building overlooking much of Mayfair.

“Oh...” Aziraphale breathed, closing his eyes and inhaling the crisp, cool London air. His wings twitched and extended, the feathers shifting in the light breeze and causing the angel to hum comfortably.

With a _woompf, _Crowley’s own wings were out in the open, the black feathers practically disappearing in the night.

Crowley had been planning to leap from the building at the soonest possible opportunity, certain that Aziraphale would follow. But as he looked back, he found the angel’s lower lip quivering and his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Angel!” Crowley croaked, concerned. He’d been certain this was what Aziraphale would want. What had gone wrong?

Without responding, Aziraphale rocketed forward, slamming into Crowley’s chest and pulling him tight. His wings came in, hovering adjacent to their arms, and Crowley finally understood.

Gingerly, he pulled his own wings in, gasping as the primaries touched, weaved together, intermingled. For beings like them, the touch was as intimate as a kiss, more so actually, and Crowley felt warmth spreading in his chest at the sight—fluffy white blending with sleek black.

“P-put your hands on them, _please_!” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s lapel, his voice muffled but audibly emotional.

“Alright,” Crowley whispered, slowly, cautiously moving his hands across the angel’s back and into the feathers that met his spine.

Aziraphale yelped, his fists tightening against Crowley’s ribs, initially worrying the demon that it was too much, too fast, but Aziraphale’s wings pushed in hard against Crowley’s hands. His primaries danced with Crowley’s where they met, and Crowley was powerless to stop the shudder.

A flood of sensation washed over Crowley as the closeness made him feel safe, secure, grounded. He closed his eyes, turning in and pressing his nose into the angel’s plush blond hair, breathing in that familiar scent as he moved his fingers in the feathers.

“_Satan, I missed this...”_ he said boldly, feeling himself beginning to shiver from the overload.

Aziraphale pulled him impossibly closer. “Me too, love. You’ve no idea. M-my dear, may I?”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley replied confidently. A year of the angel’s hands on them while they slept hadn’t desensitized them, per se, but Crowley had grown used to it—like a constant massage, or a warm, swaddling blanket.

He whimpered as Aziraphale’s desperate hands dug in a bit too enthusiastically, but didn’t dare pull away. He wanted _more,_ just as Aziraphale did, and pushed closer in every way; body, wings, hands.

_“Thank you, thank you, _thank you_, my dearest Crowley. _For everything you’ve done for me, not just for the last year, but for all 6000 of them. If these trials have taught me anything, _anything at all,_ it’s how badly I need you, how desolate I am without you, how _madly I love you._ I know you don’t like me saying it, but _God, _you’re so_ good! _Such an absolute contradiction, a creature of such unending _grace_ and _kindness_ and _love! You are a miracle, Crowley, you really are…_”

Aziraphale paused to take a shaky breath. “My dear, I...” he began, going still. “I know you intended for us to fly, and for a moment I wanted to. But I... I think I’d like to go back home, and just... do... _this_, if it’s alright with you?”

“F’course, angel, whatever you need,” Crowley murmured, loathe to pull away but doing it anyway. The words didn’t sting like they used to, didn’t ache like he knew they should. Instead they were gasoline, tossed with abandon into the flames within him. Sure, they were hellfire, but they blazed just the same.

What Aziraphale needed, as it turned out, was to lie on top of Crowley on the couch, in front of a roaring fire, his wings spread toward the heavens, and Crowley’s fingers lazily scratching through them like he was stroking a cat.

“That... feels... _divine, _love,” Aziraphale hummed, nuzzling his cheek against Crowley’s chest and making the demon blush momentarily.

“Isn’t that blasphemous?” he asked quietly into the angel’s hair.

Aziraphale grunted. “Don’t really know _what’s _blasphemous anymore, if I’m being honest,” he said, his tone a little flat. “But _being loved_... there’s no way that’s anything but Heavenly.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a very long moment—a moment in which Crowley catalogued his second favorite combination of sounds; the crackling and popping of a wood-burning fireplace, the rhythmic breathing of a relaxed and content angel, the nearly-inaudible _scritch _of fingernails through feathers, and the occasional hum of pleasure.

“I think I’ll keep them out for a very long time,” Aziraphale slurred, his eyes fluttering closed.

Crowley giggled, and it made the angel bounce slightly on his chest. “I can see the headlines now; An Angel Spotted in SoHo, and He Wears Tartan!”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Oh, my dear, I don’t plan on opening the shop. In fact, I don’t plan on leaving this _spot _for the foreseeable future.”

“Lazy angel.”

“Doting demon.”

“Touché.”


	54. The Final Trial, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had warned that these were going to get dark, thematically, but I hadn't realized how close to home they would be. I had this idea over a year ago, but this chapter and the few following it include the topic of isolation and loneliness. Obviously, current events considered, you may not want to read, and I completely understand if that's the case. Whenever we find ourselves in less uncertain times, and you want to come back, I'll be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ for language

When Crowley woke, the two of them were exactly as they had been the night before; him on his back, sprawled long-ways across the couch, and Aziraphale atop him, head nuzzled under his chin. The angel’s wings were still out, drawn in somewhat tightly against his back, and he was snoring lightly. Without angelic or demonic intervention, the fire had long since fizzled out, but the occasional crackle and whisper of collapsing wood was the only sound filling the bookshop, save for the rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock.

Crowley smiled, pressing a brief kiss into fluffy blond hair before cradling the angel against him so that he could spin and deposit him gently onto the couch alone. Being that Aziraphale rarely partook of sleeping, and was typically a light sleeper, Crowley expected the movement to wake him. But Aziraphale merely made a tiny noise of comfort, and fluttered his wings to better situate them against the cushions.

While it was painfully adorable, it made a pulse of rage flow through Crowley; the angel was so exhausted, both physically and mentally, from Heaven’s ruddy trials that he could probably sleep through a bombing. Crowley tossed a judgmental glare ceiling-ward, and shuffled to the counter to put the kettle on.

He nearly screamed when the hands wound around his middle, but the familiar press of soft belly against his back immediately calmed him.

“Y’happy, angel?” he asked, resting his own hands atop Aziraphale’s where they were clasped around his waist.

“Mmhmm,” came the answering sleepy hum, and it was accompanied by the light pressure and plush tickle of fluffy hair against the back of Crowley’s neck that signified the angel resting his head there. He continued, groggily, “Might not say _happy_, per se, I won’t be truly happy until I’ve completed them _all_. But... relieved, yes.”

“So wass’eh last one? Virtue, I mean,” he asked hurriedly. He of course knew it was abstinence, he’d been keeping track of them fervently, watching Aziraphale struggle through them and making note of every single one. His own paranoia had made him wary of what the tests would be, and thus he’d been more obsessive over them than Aziraphale himself had.

Aziraphale pulled away languidly, leaving Crowley grasping at his own stomach where the angel’s hands had been in an effort to maintain the contact for as long as possible.

“A... abstinence, I believe,” Aziraphale said, retrieving a tea bag from his favorite set-lemon, bergamot, and orange (Aziraphale preferred the more fruity ones in the morning), and dropping it into his mug. “Don’t really see what they could make me abstain from. They’ve already taken pretty much everything from me—food, drink, my wings…”

The statement wasn’t as acidic as expected, just… resolved and sad, and it made that simmering rage in Crowley’s veins bubble back to the surface. Trying to occupy his hands, which were itching to fling a rude gesture skyward, he grabbed a ginger tea bag and tossed it into his own mug.

“Maybe the bookshop?” he asked morosely, picking up the kettle and pouring into both their mugs.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, immediately picking his up. It was a charming habit Crowley had noticed—it wasn’t that Aziraphale was so eager to enjoy his tea that he wasn’t willing to let it steep, in fact quite the opposite; Aziraphale had patience when it came to delicacies, believed the prep time made them all the better. No, this was a creature comfort—Aziraphale enjoyed pacing his shop, hands wrapped securely around the mug as the tea steeped, reveling in the feel of the warming ceramic against his hands. Briefly, Crowley felt a desperate need to know what those freshly-warmed fingers would feel like against his skin.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale mused.

“I mean, they made you sell those bibles, but since then, they really haven’t acknowledged your… _hoarding_,” Crowley said, dropping a sugar cube into his tea just before receiving a scolding but weak slap to the arm.

“It’s not _hoarding_, I own a _shop,_ it’s inventory,” Aziraphale admonished, to which Crowley scoffed.

“That’s a flaming load of rubbish, and you know it,” Crowley teased, turning to face the angel and leaning his bum against the counter.

Aziraphale puffed up defiantly. “At the very worst, it’s a _collection,_ my dear boy, which isn’t—”

“Hate to break it to you angel, but Heaven’s defined line between ‘collecting’ and ‘coveting’ is about as thin as fishing line. And the only person who can see said line won’t tell you where it is until you’ve _crossed it.”_

Aziraphale deflated like a stuck balloon, and suddenly Crowley urgently regretted saying it.

“Look, angel, I’m not saying it makes you a bad angel, I’m not saying it makes you _anything._ It’s just bloody Heaven, right? They know you love reading, love the whole...” Crowley paused to wave his tea-less hand dramatically, “experience of it. The point of abstinence is to rid one of... _obsession_, of indulgence, right? I hardly see how taking away something you love counts as abstinence, though, but that’s Heaven for you. Mistaking love for _obsession_, considering something _good_ to be _bad_, and therefore telling everyone they should abs—”

Crowley jumped violently as Aziraphale’s mug, tea and all, hit the floor and shattered.

“_Shit_, Aziraphale, what the Heav—”

Aziraphale spun away from him and began frantically pacing, both hands going up into his hair and gripping it anxiously. He was positively shaking, beginning to hyperventilate, even though he didn’t need to.

“Angel??” Crowley asked worriedly, shoving his own tea back onto the counter and circumnavigating the remains of the angel’s mug to approach him.

Aziraphale wouldn’t let him, continuing his pacing and retreating from Crowley when he sidled up and held out a comforting hand.

“Angel, seriously, what’s wrong?!” Crowley asked, having found himself airdropped from a warm, comfortable morning into something dark and cold and terrifying.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but when he looked up at Crowley, his voice appeared to flee, and he simply made a desperate little squeak, followed by a mouthed “_shit_.”

Crowley actually felt the blood drain from his face, like someone had pulled a stopper. Aziraphale _did not_ curse under any circumstances other than dire ones.

“Angel, you’re scaring me, wha—”

“_It’s you!”_ Aziraphale gasped, still refusing to face him.

Crowley flopped his hands down in confusion, letting them slap against his thighs. “_What’s me_, angel? You’re not making any se-”

“Abstinence!! The final test, the _hardest one_! It’s you, Crowley, they’ll make me... they’ll force me to... abstain from _you_! _Isolate myself_, isolate you! Oh, now that’s just... that’s...”

Aziraphale’s knees suddenly gave out, and Crowley just barely managed to catch his arms and ease them both to their knees on the floor in front of the fire place.

Crowley felt like screaming. In the vein of the other trials, their ruthlessness, it made sense. He didn’t know how long they would be forced apart, but he could only assume it would be painful. He hadn’t even made it four hours when Aziraphale sent him home that fateful day so many ago. They’d hardly spent a single day away from each other since the non-apocalypse, and it was agonizingly clear now that they were pretty much _incapable_ of separating.

Crowley wanted to panic, could feel it slowly rising up inside him like the tide, could sense the darkness creeping into his mind with shadow-long fingers and nails of biting steel. But one of them needed to keep a level head currently, and seeing as how Aziraphale’s had gone flying off like a champagne cork...

“I know...” Crowley said, weary of trying to reassure the angel when he was trying fervently to keep his own rampaging steed of insecurity in the bloody gate. He wasn’t sure how their dependence on one another had become so desperate, but it had. Crowley couldn’t imagine going without his angel for a hundred years now, and by the looks of it... neither could Aziraphale. “But we don’t even know how long it’ll be, angel, and we’re not even sure it _will be_ me...”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Oh, my dear, don’t be so naïve. It’s the last test, the hardest one. I didn’t bat an eye at the thought of giving up food, drink, even _books_. But... this?! This is _hard, this is cruel. _I can’t even... imagine...”

He stopped, taking in a shaky breath and burying his face in his hands before mumbling into them, “I don’t want you to be alone, after everything, I... _I don’t want to be alone_. It isn’t... _God, it would be kinder to recall me_...”

Crowley recoiled, those tendrils of panic firmly taking hold, their knife-point nails beginning to slice through every rational thought. “Aziraphale, don’t say that,” he begged in a whisper, hoping his intended tone of reassurance negated his actual tone of ‘please don’t do that to me, _you can’t, you can’t do that to me…_’

Apparently it hadn’t, because Aziraphale’s empathy snapped him back to attention, his brilliant sapphire eyes finding Crowley’s and latching on with an almost uncomfortable intensity. Crowley did not look away, however, as the looming possibility of losing Aziraphale for an indeterminate amount of time made him frantic to drink in everything he could—build up stores of his eyes, his quirky little expressions, his voice... how could he go years without hearing that voice? So soft and understanding yet delightfully mischievous. _I love you, do you love me?_

“I’m sorry, my dear, of course I didn’t mean that. I only meant that...”

“I know, angel,” replied Crowley dejectedly. “Being surrounded by angels, even stuffy _annoying ones_, is better than being alone. I’d make the same consideration, in your shoes. If I was still… welcome… downstairs, that is…”

They were both quiet for a very long time, but ultimately it was Crowley who managed to stitch himself back together. The work was shoddy and sub-par, like a toddler handed needle and thread, but it would have to hold. For now.

The two of them didn’t do much in the three days they were given. They thought about going to the Ritz, going to the park, visiting Penny, going for sushi. In the end, though, those things were too public. While they loved humanity, loved their innovation, loved their comforts… being around humans meant _pretending_ again. Pretending they weren’t immortal, pretending they weren’t terrified, pretending they weren’t… in love.

So they simply stayed in, cooked a few more meals together, watched some more Golden Girls. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to sleep, as every second spent with his eyes closed was another second wasted not taking in the sight of his angel, memorizing every little microexpression. This didn’t stop them, however, from crawling into bed, Aziraphale with a book in one hand and the other in Crowley’s hair or feathers, and relaxing to their hearts content.

It was jarring but expected when Raziel appeared on the stoop, hat held solemnly against his chest as he begged entry. Crowley, having sequestered himself in the back room to keep from doing something regrettable to an angel that, for all intents and purposes actually _liked _him, rose to his feet and went no further than the door frame as Aziraphale beckoned Raziel into the foyer.

Raziel thanked him quietly, hanging his coat and hat on the rack by the door, before facing Aziraphale with a grave look on his face.

“I assume you know why I’m here,” the angel said, wringing his hands a bit.

Aziraphale nodded, finally looking back at Crowley, and his expression nearly floored him. There were tears beginning to flood his lashes, and his bottom lip had begun to tremble. Whatever aloof distance Crowley had been trying to achieve passed in an instant as, with blinding speed, he was at the angel’s side, taking his trembling hand and leaning against him for comfort.

“I do,” Aziraphale replied, broken and weak. “And I believe I know what you’re going to say.” At that, Aziraphale hardened, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. His fingers squeezed Crowley’s for reassurance, and he got a tighter, more secure squeeze in return. “And if I refuse?”

Crowley jerked his head to the side, completely unprepared for this suggestion.

Raziel nodded, pursing his lips tersely, as if this had been the response he’d expected all along.

“Then… then you are to be recalled. _Indefinitely.”_

By Crowley’s side, Aziraphale began hyperventilating, his hand closing like a vice on Crowley’s.

“How… _how long?”_ Aziraphale demanded, winded and frantic.

Raziel sighed, appearing resolved to the miserable nature of his errand, but also appearing sympathetic; a hand reaching out toward Aziraphale’s arm.

“I’m so sorry, Azira-”

Aziraphale yanked out of Raziel’s reach, which shoved his shoulder harder against Crowley.

_“Don’t give me that false sympathy, Raziel, how long! How long must I abstain from the only thing I’ve ever really loved?!”_ Aziraphale shrieked, startling the opposing angel so badly that he took a tentative step back.

Raziel sighed. “It’s not false, Aziraphale. I had no part in this, and made my displeasure known to the council when they sent me. You know I have no choice, just as you don’t…”

Aziraphale ground his teeth bitterly, nodding sharply. “Yes. _How long, Raziel?”_

Raziel inhaled, held it, then spoke remorsefully, “the same amount of time it took for the antichrist child to come of age. Eleven years.”

Crowley was used to pain. His existence was defined by it—an excruciating Fall from Heaven, years of lament and regret in the wake of it. Torments at the hands of Hell, torture at the hands of misguided humans. 6000 years of loving so broadly, yet so restricted he nearly burst with it.

But _this…_ this hurt worse. Eleven years. Four thousand and fifteen days. All of them without his angel’s voice, his angel’s touch, his angel’s _kiss._ The very prospect of it loomed like rolling black clouds ready to swallow him up, and the kicker was this—there would be no shining white wing to rise and cover him, shelter and console him. He knew he couldn’t handle it, knew he’d go mad.

He could feel Aziraphale similarly falling apart beside him, but he could also feel his stomach turning at the very _thought._ _I love you, do you love me?_

“S’cuse me,” he blurted, yanking his hand from Aziraphale’s as his ears began to ring, his fingers began to tingle. He ran, stumbling, to the bookshop’s bathroom, barely making it to his knees at the toilet before retching violently. He tried and tried to control his breathing, to stop hyperventilating. _Stop it, you useless creature, you don’t even need to breathe. You’ve just abandoned Aziraphale, and he needs you just as badly as you need him. Get up, get off the floor, get back to him, _now!

Crowley groaned, shoving himself to his feet and wiping his mouth on the back of a hand as he spared a miracle to rid himself of the aftertaste.

The drain of power, even so miniscule, sent him crashing back to the floor, and that was when the tears sprang forth, accompanied by desperate gasping sobs.

_“Fuck, shit, shit, fuck. I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t…”_

_“Crowley!”_

He looked up through his narrowing tunnel vision to find Aziraphale, looking as wrecked as he felt, hurrying to his knees in front of him. Tears were flowing freely down the angel’s beautiful cherubic face, but even now he was focusing not on his own anguish, but on _Crowley’s._

_Come on, Crowley you can do this, you can be strong for him. This is _his_ trial, not yours, and he needs your support. Gather up that dull needle and pull yourself back together, at least for a bit. Be strong for him. Pretend. Lie. Lie like you were made to._

“M’okay now, angel,” he grumbled, rapidly schooling his face into something more passive, something more reassuring, something that wasn’t subtly _screaming._ “Sssssorry, just… er, needed a moment.”

Aziraphale appeared unconvinced, but Crowley didn’t give him a moment more to continue analyzing. Rocketing to his feet, he pushed past the angel to approach a still-waiting, and very flustered Raziel.

“Right, so, eleven years. Yeah. Great. Good. Can-do. When does it start?” he snapped, invading the angel’s personal space and staring him down with what he was sure was fully serpentine eyes.

Incredibly thrown off by Crowley’s sudden nonchalant demeanor, Raziel took an apprehensive step back.

“Wh… whenever you’re ready. But once it’s begun, it’s begun. The clock starts ticking. And if you contact each other, it starts over. And over, and over, until you’ve completed the eleven years, in full.”

“C-contact each other… _so we can’t even phone one another, write?!”_ Aziraphale gasped, disbelieving, as he joined Crowley once again by his side.

Raziel pursed his lips regretfully. “Afraid not. To abstain is to forebear entirely, not partially. Er… here’s the missive, if… if you’d like it…”

Raziel had fished a piece of gold leaf parchment from his breast pocket, once again bearing the sigil of Michael.

Suddenly Crowley’s vision was tunneling again, but this time with vicious red rage.

_“Oh, yessss, paperwork, always with the bloody paperwork, you Heavenly bloody fuckwits.” _He snatched the letter from Raziel’s hand, paying no mind to how it stung his fingertips, how it began smoking. _“Paperwork to rate human lives, rate their dedication, rate their choices, rate their every _thought. _Oh, that one stole food, no matter that she was starving, knock her down a peg. That one _dared_ to love someone he shouldn’t, best put the fear of bloody God in him! That one risked fucking _enjoying something_, oh merciful Heaven, we can’t have that, now, can we?! And of _course_ you’ve got to have the bloody paperwork to torture your own, it wouldn’t do if we didn’t keep _records_ of our heartless, spineless…”_

“Crowley…” Aziraphale cautioned, but it fell on deaf ears.

_“Merciless fucking cruelty. Must write it down, we don’t want to lose track. We might forget that _we’re supposed to be the righteous ones,_ and if we don’t write it down, one might mistake us for bloody _Hell!”

**“Hold your tongue, serpent, unless you fancy losing it,”** Raziel bellowed, his eyes beginning to glow white for a fraction of a second, the blessed air crackling and stinging Crowley’s skin like so many tiny electric shocks. Indifferent to the pain, Crowley huffed, spinning violently, depositing the generously smoking letter on the dining table, and collapsed into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands and releasing the scream he’d been holding back into his palms.

The silence that followed was deafening, and no sooner had it settled, Aziraphale’s strong, soft hand had wrapped around Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing brokenly.

“I won’t beg your forgiveness on his behalf…” Aziraphale snapped, clearly addressing Raziel.

“And I don’t expect it,” Raziel replied, his voice returned to its cool, even nature. “I understand his frustration, I really do. Ever since the averted apocalypse, things have been changing in Heaven. Unfortunately, these trials they’ve forced on you are the old ways, still clinging on by their feathertips, in the form of a few stubborn angels who sit on the council. Many, myself included, agree with _you_, Aziraphale.”

Crowley finally looked up, staring Raziel down with anger-tinted curiosity.

“That this all could have been part of the plan to begin with, and that, by its ineffable nature, we can’t be sure. And that, as such, your actions were not traitorous or disloyal, in fact they could have been the brightest example of _true loyalty_ in recent memory. The number of us who do hold that belief find these tests of your faithfulness the real treason. But we are a minority, and no matter the volume of our voices, there are always those who would silence us.”

Crowley felt a wave of shame come over him as he realized what he was faced with. He stood, sighing dejectedly as he approached Raziel.

“Careful with that, the speaking up bit. Can get you into a real pickle,” he said, holding out a hand like an olive branch.

Raziel looked down at it, smiled, and took it.

“If I gained even a fraction of what you did…” he looked at Aziraphale. “It might be worth it. Good day, gents. And good luck.”


	55. The Final Trial, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ for discussion of self-harm
> 
> (Sorry this one is really short, but I have the next one written, just need to proof-read it. So expect another shortly.)

To put it mildly, Aziraphale felt as though his chest cavity had been cleaved open with a dull knife, and his heart plucked out.

It had been more than an hour since Raziel left, and neither of them had spoken a word.

Crowley was draped sideways over Aziraphale’s favorite reading chair, one long Rapunzel-hair leg flowing dramatically over the armrest. He was uncharacteristically still as he sat, staring at his own charred fingertips through the glistening highball of amber single-malt scotch; no kicking leg, no twitching fingers, no flickering snake tongue. Just intense golden eyes, trained straight ahead in a dead, mile-long stare.

Aziraphale considered saying something, as he had several times now, but none of it passed the bar; _is it true, will it help?_

Nothing he’d considered met those barest of requirements. _We used to go hundreds of years without seeing each other_. True, but unhelpful, _used to,_ being the operative words. _We’ll be alright…_ completely false. _We have to, we don’t have a choice. _True, but cruel. And none of it was reassuring.

Because he knew Crowley couldn’t handle this, and seriously doubted his own ability. He’d had what amounted to a panic attack that day so, so long ago, when they returned from the cottage for the first time. Just the sound of the demon’s fading footsteps rang, even now, in Aziraphale’s mind like a gavel.

“The Vatican,” Crowley barked severely into the silence, twirling his scotch around in the glass a few times and watching with rapt attention as the liquid became a miniature whirlwind—a tempest to mirror his own.

“What?” Aziraphale inquired quietly, lowering his own glass to the side table adjacent the couch.

“Vatican City. That’s where you’ll have to go,” Crowley said, still deadpan.

“My dear, I’m afraid I don’t unders-”

Crowley adjusted his posture, his head snapping to the side to fix Aziraphale in that deadly predator’s glare.

_"You have to go somewhere I physically can’t follow, angel,”_ Crowley hissed wretchedly, his voice breaking. _“If you didn’t tell me where you’d gone, I’d track you down, if you kept moving, I’d be faster. Because if we’re on the same planet, I’ll _always _find you. The proverbial moth to the flame, me. Either you’ve got to restrain me; chain me, cage me, throw away the key… or…” _he paused, swallowing hard as he averted his gaze, “or you have to go where I _can’t.”_

It was the most breathtaking and heartbreaking poetry Aziraphale had ever heard, and he’d listened to Shakespeare’s sonnets, recited passionately by the bard himself. He’d been privy to Wilde’s early works, he’d shared notes with T. S. Eliot, even briefly became pen pals with Emily Dickinson. None of them held a candle to Crowley.

Aziraphale could feel his lower lip beginning to tremble, felt that rush of heat in his cheeks and the pooling tears in his eyes. Desperately, he threw himself from the couch, collapsing to the floor before his lovely demon, grasping his free hand and holding it against his own bowed forehead, entreating.

_"Please, my Crowley, please be strong for me. I know how you are, know how you _become._ I know how you turn to pain, how you seek it out as a distraction. I’ve seen you wallow and despair, when you think I’m not watching, seen you draw your own blood. And I… I was making progress, taking note of the signs, and I could _stop you,_ distract you, remind you that your life isn’t pain, not anymore. But I won’t be there to stop you, and nothing… _nothing _will hurt me more than the knowledge that you’re suffering, and I _can’t help you._ Please, Crowley, please…”_

Oddly, he’d run out of words, despite being the proprietor of probably the most extensive lexicon in Heaven, Earth, and Hell combined. Nothing sufficed to say _I know this is going to hurt, know that you will be in agony, but I’m asking you, _begging you_… please weather it. For me. Please._

Because he’d already tortured Crowley for 6000 years, hadn’t he? Pushing him away, denying him, doubting his love, rejecting its very existence—how could he possibly ask him to endure _more?_

Aziraphale’s words turned into sobs as he gave up, pressing Crowley’s hand to his forehead, begging his forgiveness, and yet again, despite all of it, despite the pain, the rage, the looming loneliness, Crowley leapt back into protective mode, as he’d always done, yanking his hand away, slithering onto the floor, and pulling Aziraphale against him in a tight, swaddling embrace that made it impossible to think. Not about the trial, not about past mistakes, not about wasted time, but about Crowley—his demonic strength being used to soothe, his tempting voice used to hush fears rather than stoke them.

“Alright, s’alright, I know…” Crowley was babbling, but pointedly _not_ agreeing to Aziraphale’s request.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” he choked against the demon’s ridiculously expensive shirt. “The only thing that’ll sustain me through e-” he nearly gagged on the words, “_eleven years_ is knowing you’re _safe._ Unharmed. Promise me, Crowley, please promise me…”

Crowley rocked him once, pulling him closer. “That’s enough, angel, not another thought about it…”

He still wasn’t agreeing.

Aziraphale pushed away from him, holding him at arm’s length with a fist grasped hard in the demon’s shirt.

_"Crowley!”_

“Don’t force me to lie to you, angel!” Crowley practically howled, his fangs becoming visible behind thin, anger-twisted lips. “I can’t agree to that, and _you know it.”_

It was a devastating blow, but one Aziraphale knew to be true; if Crowley agreed not to harm himself, and then, in a moment of weakness, _did…_ he would invariably spiral afterward, knowing he’d failed Aziraphale’s request, and likely become even more prone to self-punishment.

Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to release his death-grip on the demon’s shirt, patting and fretting over the resulting wrinkles by way of an apology.

“Alright. Alright, yes, I know. I’m asking too much,” he mumbled, opening his eyes to see two distraught, remorseful serpentine ones. “But… at the very least, can you promise me this; that you will try three things, any three things _first_, before resorting to harm? Put on a record, try to sleep, watch some Telly, hold the blanket I gave you, go talk to Penny. _Anything. _Just… when you start to feel it coming on, and I know you do, I’ve seen the way you go tap-tap-tapping away with that middle finger of yours—”

Aziraphale was relieved to see Crowley crack a self-conscious smile at the observation. He reached up, brushing a thumb over that reddening cheek, then cupped it adoringly in his palm. He swore his heart swelled, Grinch-style, when Crowley leaned into it.

“When you feel it coming on,” he started again, “remember… _I love you._ And I want you to _try. Just try. _That’s all I’m asking. Can you do that for me?”

He could practically see the cogs turning as Crowley stared back at him, those slim pupils barely twitching back and forth as he focused on Aziraphale’s intent face.

Crowley caved, his shoulders falling as well as his head, bowed down until his chin touched his chest. “Yeah, l’right angel. I can do that,” he murmured toward his knees.

“There’s a love,” Aziraphale cooed, forcing Crowley’s head back up and pressing a cautious, gentle kiss to his lips, which he responded to with vigor.


	56. The Final Trial, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ probably, for language.
> 
> Again, and I cannot stress this enough... oof. I'm sorry, okay? But it's gunna get better, promise! There may be a delay in my posting, because I'm what they call 'essential.' But I will try very hard to get the next chapters up in a timely manner.

Aziraphale was struggling to keep his legs moving; every step closer to the sliding glass door baring “Heathrow Airport” felt like walking on hot coals, on shattered glass, on spent needles. It felt like a betrayal, like turning away from the nest with the young still inside. He’d promised, hadn’t he? _I shall never be far from you. _And now he was going, leaving, traveling far, _far away_ from his love. It hadn’t been his choice, true, but that didn’t quell the sting of it, not at all.

Mingling in the forecourt was usually forbidden, but a simple miracle took care of any interested, prying eyes, as Aziraphale slowly turned, tipping his rolling luggage upright to rest and pointedly avoiding Crowley’s eyes. He had some things to say, and if he beheld that tempest _now, _before speaking any of it, he feared he’d simply throw his luggage back into the boot of the Bentley and insist that they prepare for war with Heaven.

He sniffed, facing Penny, whose expression was a myriad of sadness, pity, and worry.

“Right...” he began, his voice immediately breaking. “I, er... I suspect you’ll be a very different person when I return.”

The thought was heart-rending to Aziraphale. Eleven years was a good fraction of a lifetime for humans. He’d seen empires rise and fall in that time, seen families bloom, grow, and shatter, seen whole civilizations crumble.

“Rubbish. I’ll be the exact same. Perhaps a few wrinkles, few greys. But nothing major. Promise,” she said, her own voice wavering like a precariously balanced glass effigy. She reached out to brush one hand comfortingly up and down his arm, the other finding the back of his hand, brushing his knuckles, skin-to-skin.

She gasped as her clairvoyance obviously flooded her with the despair Aziraphale was feeling, and, despite her clear sympathy, she yanked her hand back as if she’d laid it on a hot burner. Humans weren’t meant to feel the magnitude of grief surging through his veins.

“Now, I’ve left a little list on the counter in the bookshop, nothing major, and if you don’t have time, it doesn’t really matter; spared a miracle to ensure the bills are paid, regardless of store hours. But if you feel like opening it up, I’ve filled out a bit of paperwork naming you as an employee. I don’t expect regular hours, mind, and I actually did boot that old hunk of junk computer of mine, and figure out the ‘payroll’ option. Just mark your time, and the pay will be deposited to you. I certainly don’t expect free labor, after all.

“Most of my favorites, the ones I’m unwilling to part with, have been taken to the cottage. So if you’ve got to make a few sales, I won’t be upset. And er... dust them occasionally, would you? Frightfully bad on the pages, dust.”

He paused then, daring to peek out the corner of his vision to where Crowley was anxiously pacing the forecourt, shoulders held high and arms crossed tightly in front of him.

Aziraphale lowered his voice as he turned back to Penny. “He’s going to spiral, I guarantee it. He’ll be unruly, unmanageable, and a complete nightmare. But please, _please_, for me, look after him as best you can. I know he can be difficult, and moody, and sometimes won’t let you get close, and you’re only human, there’s only so much you can do...”

“Oh, I dunno, I think you’re underestimating my ability to handle rowdy men,” she interrupted, a bitter smile on her lips.

Aziraphale grinned sadly in return. “Well... regardless... _I need you to be my eyes and ears—all trained on him. _I know I’m asking a lot, and for so very long, but...”

“You’re not. You’re really not. I will look after him, Aziraphale, I promise. And they said you couldn’t contact _him,_ but they never said anything about _me._ If you’re worried about him, call me. I don’t care if it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. _Call me. _I’ll give you status updates. Like a nanny!”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the affectionate laugh he let out, both at Penny’s beautifully human empathy, and the irony of the statement—Crowley had once been the nanny, and now he was the charge.

“I really appreciate that, Penny, I do. Bless you, love.” The words held a bit of miraculous intent, adding some angelic magic to the already substantial luck she had garnered from the Trinity Spell. “I shall miss you terribly.”

“You too, Aziraphale,” she replied, her lower lip jutting out before she leaned in to hug him incredibly tightly. “And don’t ever think you’re being a bother,” she continued into his hair, “If you’ve only just called me, and feel the need to call back, do it. I may give you a bit of grief, but I’m only joking. If you need to call, do.”

A massive swell of emotion hit him at the selflessness displayed by a _human_, aimed at a couple of emotionally constipated immortals. He nodded and smiled, still bittersweet, before pulling back and turning to face Crowley with steadily mounting dread.

How to say goodbye? In the past, it had been flippant, dismissive, and distanced. It was loaded with plausible deniability, cocked in the chamber. _Be seeing you. ‘Til next time. Mind how you go. Tchao._

But... now? What would suffice? _My heart is tearing in two, even now, at just the _thought_ of stepping through those doors? I shall eat nothing, drink nothing, for no earthly delight will compare to your absent lips? My dreams, when I deign to have them, will be both blessed and burdened by nothing but you, you, _you_._

Glittering words, all far too poetic for Crowley’s taste. Something simpler, perhaps...

But he couldn’t peg down the jittery demon, who, despite seeing Aziraphale approaching, seemed incapable of halting his pacing.

His hands were crossed tightly over his chest, gripping the opposite bicep in white-knuckled fists, his shoulders were high and tense, and a low, constant hiss was escaping his barely-parted lips. He eyed Aziraphale through his glasses, the brilliant yellow flare of it shining momentarily through the dark lenses.

“Dear,” Aziraphale began, reaching out and having to corral the vibrating demon between his outstretched hands to stop his movements. As soon as he had Crowley in his grasp, he flooded him with calming, reassuring, _loving _energy, and it was like watching a marionette as its strings were cut. Crowley whined quietly, his hands and shoulders falling, and let out a long, warbling breath.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, raising a hand to the temple bar of Crowley’s glasses. He didn’t miss the nervous flick of his pupils as they frantically snapped about at the nearby humans.

“No one will see,” Aziraphale clarified, sparing another minor miracle to guide all eyes away.

Crowley nodded then, his Adam’s apple working in a convulsive swallow.

Aziraphale’s heart ached as he slowly removed the glasses and beheld those stunning eyes; eyes he wouldn’t see for _eleven long, agonizing years. _He desperately hurried to catalogue every nuance in brilliant sunflower yellow, each fleck of starlight gold. The long, lean curve of those slit pupils—a silhouette mirroring the demon’s own lanky one. The impressively lengthy lashes, like those of any Hollywood starlet. The soft, hooded lids that always gave the impression of a stalking predator.

Aziraphale tried to remember what they looked like, bright with mirth, but saw nothing but the pain currently tearing them asunder.

“Right, so,” Aziraphale began, clearing his throat of the grieving frog and sliding Crowley’s glasses into the demon’s jacket pocket. “I erm... I got a little carried away, stress-cooking, so there’s about a month’s worth of food in the fridge at the bookshop. It won’t spoil. I know you... you don’t really partake all that much, but... perhaps... when you’re feeling low... a little something made by me?”

Crowley made a tiny, desperate noise, but didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded brokenly, swallowing down the dread again.

“And remember what I said, please,” Aziraphale went on, lowering his voice so only Crowley could hear. “About self-harm?”

Crowley nodded again, less noticeable this time. Aziraphale began stroking up and down his bicep rhythmically, attempting to anchor him. Whether it was successful remained to be seen.

“And if I might make one more request?” he asked carefully, squeezing Crowley’s arm once, gently. Crowley nodded again. “Try to develop a routine? Things that you can do to take up your time. Get up in the morning, and I do mean morning, _as in before noon, _you slothful creature...”

Finally, Crowley cracked a smile, and Aziraphale quickly took a mental snapshot—the way his lips thinned and quirked up at one side, the way his cheeks pinked and his eyes sparkled.

Aziraphale continued, “Perhaps have some tea, watch some... some... _cartoons,_ or something...”

“I don’t watch bloody _cartoons,_ angel...”

“Well _whatever it is _that you watch,” Aziraphale replied with hardly any real disinterest. “The point is to _do things._ I don’t even care if you want to get up to some mischief. In fact I’d love it if you did—serve Heaven right for sending away the only agent that could thwart you. But I want you to get in the habit of doing those things. So that you don’t... erm...”

“Wallow?” Crowley supplied, that crooked, demure grin still on his face.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, giving the demon’s arm another rub.

A moment passed in which they simply stared at one another, 6000 years of goodbyes culminating in this one. Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times, the words clearly fleeing those trembling lips.

To Aziraphale’s dismay, Crowley fell back on an old coping mechanism; shuttering his emotions behind a mask of aloofness and detachment. He watched it happen—Crowley straightened, backing away and out of Aziraphale’s grasp, and cleared his throat dismissively.

“Right, boarding pass,” he barked, slapping both hands around his body, searching out the pocket he’d stuffed it in, eventually locating it alongside his glasses in the breast pocket. Aziraphale watched him, dismayed, a hand still held out toward him, beckoning, asking for his presence.

“Here. You’ll find that it, er... metamorphosed overnight from coach to first class. Make sure you take advantage of the free booze.”

Aziraphale’s hand slowly gave up on its search for Crowley, meandering to take the ticket miserably.

“I imagine the, er... the meals will be better in first class too. Can’t have you eating garbage,” Crowley said, peering around in a distracted manner that rang incredibly false. It was very clear that the only place those yellow eyes wanted to be was on Aziraphale, but it hurt too much. So he was trying to cope.

And normally Aziraphale would let him, but this was too important. He pocketed the boarding pass and took one long step forward, crowding Crowley’s personal space. As expected, Crowley did not back away or even startle—he relaxed, as if this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“One more thing, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, raising a hand to cup behind Crowley’s neck. “When it feels like the sky is falling and the walls are closing in... remember that _I love you. So _very_ much. In all the ways you can imagine, and some that you can’t.”_

With that out of the way, Aziraphale began leaning in, but to his horror, Crowley stopped him with a hand on his chest. Blinking rapidly with confusion, Aziraphale searched his golden eyes.

“Make it bloody count, angel,” Crowley whimpered, his eyes trained only on Aziraphale’s lips.

While Aziraphale had been many things over the time of all creation, one to pass up an opportunity was not among them. Call it what you will—hedonistic, gluttonous, indulgent, what have you. But when he saw something tempting before him, despite all notions of angelic behavior and temperance... he was almost always a goner, and to none so quickly as Crowley.

Keeping his one hand clasped behind Crowley’s neck, he wrapped the other tightly around his lower back, yanking them together and slotting their bodies against one another in all the ways they fit—Crowley’s jagged concave angles meeting Aziraphale’s soft convex ones.

Crowley’s hands abandoned all pretense—wrapping around Aziraphale, beneath his tan overcoat, gripping into his shirt right where his wings would be, and yanking him impossibly tighter against him.

Their lips were the last to meet; pressing carefully but firmly together and garnering a gasp from both of them. Crowley inhaled hard, as if he hadn’t been able to breathe until Aziraphale’s lips unlocked his. Then his tongue was surging forward, questing against the angel’s lower lip in a gentle but frantic question; _please, may I?_

Aziraphale answered firmly, taking Crowley’s proffered tongue, setting it aflame with teeth and tongue. He thrilled at the little whine his efforts earned, and doubled down, nipping at Crowley’s lips possessively.

After what felt like an eternity, Crowley was the one to pull back, but it was clear by the way he dipped back in to peck another, smaller kiss to Aziraphale’s lips that it wasn’t because he _wanted _to pull away. He was simply stopping himself because he knew he had to, knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t. And it was true—Aziraphale would miss his flight, miss all of them, and stand here snogging his lovely demon all day if no one stopped him.

With hands that were now beginning to tremble, Crowley released Aziraphale’s bunched-up shirt, backing away regretfully and averting his eyes down to the concrete walkway beneath him.

“Suppose that’s it then,” he mumbled, self-consciously shoving his hands into his jeans pocket (probably with a small miracle, because there was no way those skin-tight trousers could fit anything else).

“Suppose it is,” Aziraphale replied, clearing his throat. There was so much more he wanted... no, _needed _to say, but... just couldn’t.

“Call me when you land, yeah?” Penny piped up, startling Aziraphale and reminding him that there were, in fact, other people present besides him and Crowley.

“Ah, yes, jolly good,” he hastened to say, busying himself by grasping for his luggage as he flicked his eyes briefly back toward Crowley, who had returned to his tense, locked, and distant stance. Aziraphale yearned you just scoop him back up, hold him so tight he couldn’t even breathe, but... it would just delay the inevitable, and make it that much harder to part.

“Well, I... erm...” he began, feeling his throat begin to close up, desperate to impede that goodbye rising up. “I’ll... be seeing you, Penny. And Crow-“

His throat finally betrayed him, closing up and forcing him to start over, broken and weak.

“Crowley... _I love you, my dear._”

It was as if he’d shot the poor demon; he growled, spinning away and grasping fistfuls of his hair as he paced manically. Aziraphale was almost certain he could hear him cycling through every curse word in his lexicon, but didn’t dare hush him. In fact, he was struggling not to fling his luggage down and join him.

“Right, yeah, _ahem_, me... me too, angel,” Crowley said finally, after approaching again and getting himself under control.

Aziraphale took one more mental photograph of his love—sharp angles, hair a carefully coifed mess, pitch black clothes that hugged his long, lean form, and soft, stunning midsummer sunflower eyes. He reached out, taking the demon’s wiry hand in his own, caressed the knuckles a few times, then kissed them for good measure.

“You’re alright, love. We’ll be alright. Eleven years is the blink of an eye for us. Before you know it, we’ll be together again. _Forever,”_ he said, wary of promising something about which he was so uncertain. But he knew one thing—he was going to fight tooth and nail to make it a reality.

Crowley nodded, his Adam’s apple working as he slowly pulled his hand back, his spidery fingers extending at the last minute to seek just one more brush of skin.

Taking one last look at the demon he adored, the human he depended on, and the car he hated to love, Aziraphale gathered up his willpower and luggage, and forced himself to walk through the sliding glass doors.

No sooner had he breeched them, when he was suddenly and viciously yanked back around, and a lean, strong demon was wrapped around him, his lips brushing Aziraphale’s ear.

_“Angel, I… I… fuck, you didn’t ask me. Ask me, please, Aziraphale, angel, my angel, please ask me, ssso I can answer, please…”_

Shame and guilt flooded Aziraphale in a wave that made his heart thunder beneath aching ribs and his ears burn hot.

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course, love, I’m so sorry, what an old silly, me, how could I have possibly…”

The breathtaking melody of a small giggle filled Aziraphale’s ear, immediately halting his dithering, followed by a breathy, pleading, _“angel…”_

“Oh, yes, right, of course. _Do you love me, my dear?”_ he inquired softly, feeling the demon’s fists grip tighter to him as the words landed.

Crowley deflated then, clearly relieved, a contented sigh brushing past Aziraphale’s ear to dance with the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, causing a completely involuntary shudder.

“God, Satan, _anyone who cares to fucking listen,_ yes!” Crowley gasped, one hand migrating up Aziraphale’s back to grip hard into his hair and pull him tightly into the crook of Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale found that the slight stinging pain of the demon’s grip didn’t register as such—instead it was grounding, reassuring, swaddling. He inhaled hard, allowing the suffocating combined sensations to pleasantly overwhelm him, and dared press a light kiss to the juncture of Crowley’s neck and shoulder.

Crowley whimpered slightly, more like a mitigated sob, and continued on.

“Yes, yes, Aziraphale, so bloody much, I do, so, _so_ much. And I need you to remember it too, please, don’t forget, _please don’t forget…”_

The words were pained, and so far past entreating that Aziraphale would hazard to call them begging. Guilt swelled within Aziraphale, for the fact that Crowley actually thought, actually _believed_ that time, that prolonged distance could make him _forget,_ could force them to start over. And before he knew what was happening, he was breaking down in the demon’s arms. He tried to stifle them, but sudden, vicious sobs tore from his throat as he grasped at whatever of Crowley he could, holding on for dear life as he’d done at the end of the apocalypse, as he’d done when Satan came for Crowley, as he’d done so many times when the loss of his wings became too much to bear. Crowley was constant, Crowley was unbreakable. But he wouldn’t be.

“No, hush, shhhhh, I’m sorry angel, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry,” Crowley cooed, a hand brushing through Aziraphale’s hair.

“Nononono, you di-didn’t,” Aziraphale choked out, fighting to wrangle his emotions back into the box. “I’ll _never ever forget_, Crowley, please believe that. I know that time and distance have often torn a rift between us, and I know that I often became detached and cold when I spent too much time away from you. And I know that places of faith and divinity, like Vatican City, used to instill in me a seed of dread, of inadequacy, of disloyalty to Heaven, and that I would then return to you and keep my distance, project those feelings onto you. I know that, I do, and _it will not happen again._ This changes nothing, my dear. _Always toward absent lovers, love’s tide stronger flows,” _he finished, knowing Crowley would recognize the Elegy.

He felt Crowley nuzzle in against his hair, inhaling hard, and he decided to do the same—filing away that intoxicating scent of pomade and warm skin, mild Gucci cologne, and the crisp morning air smell of his miracled-clean clothes. And just a hint deeper, beneath the flesh and bone, there was the ever-present scent of flames—like a campfire on a cool night, but crisper, less smoky. Something clean but dangerous. Something Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d grown so used to, so in need of.

_“Goodbye, angel,” _Crowley whimpered into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale squeezed him again before pulling back, framing the demon’s lovely, heartbroken face in his hands.

“For now, Crowley. Goodbye _for now_,” he whispered back, caressing Crowley’s cheek with a thumb.

He watched as the words wounded Crowley, a grimace crossing his features as if he’d been stabbed by a blessed blade, before he closed his eyes and looked away dejectedly.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Aziraphale whispered, feeling the true weight in Shakespeare’s words for the very first time. “Take care of yourself.” He allowed one last touch to the demon’s angular shoulder, feeling the vibrating nerves beneath his fingertips.

Crowley nodded. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale had never done anything quite so difficult, quite so _painful_ as walking away, leaving Crowley there in a crowd of bustling, oblivious humans. And the wound ripped open further when he glanced back one last time, only to see the sheer decimation on Crowley’s face. He tried to erase it from his mental image of his lovely demon as he turned away and walked into the airport proper... but couldn’t quite manage.


	57. The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Bernie Sanders meme* I am once again apologizing for taking so long to update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: HARD mature. **TW:** depression, mentions of self-harm, mentions of suicidal thoughts (kind of--they're discorporation thoughts), and pretty intense depictions of alcohol and drug use/overdose.
> 
> I said these were gunna get dark. I meant it. But hang in there, please!
> 
> Also, I am not a psychiatrist, nor do I know much about it. So if I made any errors in that regard, forgive me.

Penny was worried about Crowley. And not the normal, baseline worry she always felt when it came to her favorite high-strung, jittery, emotionally volatile demon. No, this was a whole new level of worry.

Crowley was silent and still as she deposited him on her couch, his gaze glassy and endless. She’d insisted she bring him back to hers, so that he wouldn’t be alone, and he hadn’t protested. But what worried her the most was, when she saw the devastated look on his face as he’d walked out of the airport lobby, and she suggested that she drive them home… _in the Bentley,_ he hadn’t protested then either. He simply fished the keys from his pocket and plopped them into her palm, sliding into the passenger seat blankly.

“Crowley? Do you want some tea? Wine?” she asked cautiously as she fetched a blanket and threw it over his shoulders. He didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge her in the slightest. She considered touching his hand, gleaning for herself what he was feeling, but…

When she’d touched Aziraphale at the airport, his state of distress had nearly floored her, right there on the forecourt. And Crowley… well, his habit of keeping his emotions bottled within made them so much more potent than Aziraphale’s, and she didn’t fancy dropping like a lead balloon to the floor. So, she went about making the demon some tea, constantly peering into the sitting room to check on him.

Like some kind of wax figure, he just… wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing, wasn’t blinking. And when she returned and tried to place the mug in his hand, he didn’t respond, and she was forced to place it on the coffee table.

He didn’t budge for almost an hour, and when he did, it startled Penny so badly she almost screamed.

His form became muddled at the edges, like an out-of-focus image, and then suddenly there was a massive black and red serpent on her couch, coiling up tightly into the blanket she had provided, head hidden in mounds of scales.

“Alright, if that’s how you’re comfortable,” Penny said, pity staining her voice so badly it sounded like the tone adults use when talking to children. She stood, taking his untouched and cold mug of tea into the kitchen to pour it into the sink.

That was when she heard the front door open, and Arvin’s voice call out to her.

Things had been going well… almost too well between them. He was unlike any man she’d ever met. He was interested in her work, both as an almost-there practicing psychologist, and a modern-day witch. He hadn’t balked when she told him, had barely even flinched. In fact, he became adorably excited, and launched into an hours-long explanation of how he was obsessed with the occult when he was a child, and actually used to have a moderately popular YouTube channel where he and his friends would break into old abandoned houses and do séances and ghost hunts.

He seemed so too-good-to-be-true, in fact, that when Penny called her sister to rant excitedly about him, Ava had insisted that she ‘propose to him yesterday.’

She’d even told him of her most recent and most successful spell—the trinity binding her to a demon and angel. He’d taken it… as well as could be expected. But she suspected that he partly didn’t believe her, because even though he was impressively open-minded, he was also intelligent and analytical, and typically believed things when he saw them.

Well… he was about to see it.

She scuttled hurriedly from the kitchen to intercept him, but didn’t quite make it.

“Hey, just stopped by to _bloody fucking Hell, is that a snake?!” _he shrieked as he entered the sitting room, leaping rather comically back into the foyer.

“Er… yes,” Penny said, going not to Arvin, but to Crowley. She knelt in front of the couch, and reached out to gently rest a hand against his scales.

Her clairvoyance worked differently when he was in his snake form. Things were muted and strange, as if his emotions were in some kind of language she couldn’t understand. But she could still get the gist, and right now, he was grieving and inconsolable, and it immediately brought tears to her eyes.

“This…” she began, using her other hand to wipe the tears away hastily. “Is Crowley.”

Arvin stilled, taking a tentative step back into the sitting room. They’d met, of course, all those months ago when Crowley and Aziraphale returned from their second trip to the cottage. But that was before she had told Arvin _what_ Crowley was, and she hadn’t told Arvin _this bit._ Best not to throw too much at a blossoming relationship at once…

“The bloke I met at the Ritz? The… the _demon?”_ Arvin whispered conspiratorially.

Penny giggled at him slightly, beginning to stroke her fingers against Crowley’s scales. Unfortunately, Crowley still didn’t respond. She thought she might have heard a hiss, but it could have been traffic noise.

“Yes,” she said, holding a hand out in beckoning to Arvin, who bravely approached, took it, and knelt net to her, his eyes roving over the meters of iridescent black. Crowley’s emotions were a rampaging wildfire travelling up her right hand, and Arvin’s were a cool breeze of mild fear and blooming curiosity in her left. It was overwhelming but… interesting, to say the least.

“He’s very upset right now,” she said, pressing a little harder in reassurance against his scales and finding, to her delight, that he shifted a bit. “And I don’t think he’s in a chatty mood. Not exactly how I wanted it to go, with you… y’know… _knowing what he is now._ But trust me, he’s nice.”

Now she was certain she heard a hiss.

“Doesn’t sound nice,” Arvin replied.

“He’s just being a twat. Doesn’t like me calling him _nice_,” Penny said, poking Crowley gently but playfully with a single finger. To her shock, his head appeared at the top of the coils, and he rested it atop them to stare at her, tongue flicking out a few times. She wasn’t sure how she could tell, but something in his golden eyes said ‘don’t feel like changing back right now, but I’m feeling a smidge better.’

“Hello,” she said, again pitying, and dared to stroke her finger down the top of his head. They’d never been particularly _affectionate_ with each other, but if he was ever willing to allow it, it was probably now.

And allow it he did, situating his head heavier on his coils and flicking his tongue out again.

“_Blimey,”_ Arvin said, his eyes glittering with fascination. “He’s… _beautiful._ Are all of them like this?”

“Demons?” Penny asked, and then she and Crowley spoke in tandem, “no.”

“_Jesus!” _Arvin yelped, falling backward from his knees, his back colliding with the coffee table. “He can talk?”

“Coursssse I can talk, what do you take me for, a carnival-trick?” Crowley asked, his entire form resituating and spiraling around the blanket.

“N-no, I just… I thought it was like… an… Animorphs… kinda… deal,” Arvin said, leaning back up onto his knees. “Can… can I?”

Arvin’s hand was reaching out but hovering without touching. Penny was ecstatic to see a flash of mischief in the serpent’s lidless eyes.

“Five quid to touch, eight if I bite you, ten for you to bite me,” Crowley sassed. Penny did not count ‘see a snake smirk’ among her list of expectations for today, but such was the life of a witch.

“Cheeky,” Arvin snapped back. “Seriously though, may I?”

Penny’s heart swelled with pride. It was one of the things she immediately adored about Arvin—he was extremely thoughtful about touching others, and always made sure to have consent for even the smallest of contact. It had allowed her to maintain a bit of mystery, being unable to simply use her clairvoyance on him, and had resulted in them _talking_ with each other, learning about one another more than she had with other men in the past.

“Sssssure, if you like,” Crowley hissed, and Arvin tentatively caressed across the scales delicately.

“Whoa. Feels weird. I’ve never touched a snake before. Not what I expected…” he said, petting Crowley’s scales now with enthusiasm.

“Yessss, that’s becaussse the ruddy bad reputation comes with the expectation that all reptiles are ssslimy,” Crowley said, lifting his head and turning it to look down at Arvin’s hand.

Arvin immediately yanked his hand back, and Crowley soured.

“Ssssee?” he asked, tongue flashing. “You thought I would strike.”

Arvin looked guilty, but Penny hurried to his defense. “Well… all due respect, Crowley, but… who’s fault is that?”

Although it was impossible, Penny was certain Crowley narrowed his eyes at her. “Touché, Penny,” he grumbled.

“He’s not… you’re not… you bloody…?” Arvin stuttered, pointing accusingly at Crowley.

“The very ssssame. Although she would have eaten the bloody thing regardlessss of my meddling. I’m just efficient,” Crowley replied, looking somehow smug.

Arvin looked… overwhelmed. “Bloody hell…”

“Precisssely,” Crowley responded.

“How big are you?” Arvin asked, his eyes roving over the length of coils. Penny felt another spike of adoration at Arvin’s immediate need for all the information he could attain.

“Bit personal,” Crowley sassed again, and Arvin’s face colored.

“The _cheek_ on this one…” he mused with a grin.

“Oh my God, _tell me about it!”_ Penny groaned. “Now imagine being stuck with ‘im _for life!”_

Crowley huffed, somehow, but began to relax his coils, taking up the entire couch with them.

“Not sure, actually,” Crowley said, peering at his own long body. “Never measured. Six meters or so?”

“Bloody hell…” Arvin said again, and Penny giggled at the new mantra.

Crowley resettled, then yawned, his fangs gleaming slightly. Suddenly he looked sad again, and it was clear that the distraction was fading.

Ever intuitive, Arvin seemed to notice, and he placed a still, comforting hand atop Crowley’s scales, just behind his head. “Well… it was… er, good to… _see _you. Feel better, friend.”

With that, Arvin motioned with his head toward the foyer, and Penny followed, sparing a look over her shoulder to see Crowley coiling back into the blanket and hiding his head.

“Where’s… er… the other one. Is he here too?” Arvin asked, hushed.

Penny shook her head sadly. “No. That’s actually what he’s upset about. Aziraphale is being forced to, er… spend some time away from him. He’s flying to Italy right now. Crowley… misses him, doesn’t like being separated. I’m actually going to try to get him to stay here for a while, just so that I can keep an eye on him. So I may not have a lot of free time, coming up.”

Arvin smiled warmly. “It’s fine, love. My pride isn’t so delicate that it can be wounded when my partner has a life apart from me. You call when you need me.”

Penny smiled wide as Arvin leaned in to kiss her forehead, endlessly appreciative of the diamond she’d found.

Arvin’s last relationship, a young lad from America, had ended poorly because proper boundaries weren’t set, and Penny suspected that that was where Arvin had developed such intense emotional intelligence.

“Thanks, Arvin. I appreciate that. Erm… why was it you stopped by?” she asked, peeking back at Crowley, now completely motionless again.

“Oh, just to see you. Heading to Belfast for a week for work, and wanted to see you properly before,” he said, also peering over her shoulder to look at Crowley.

“Oh… I’m sorry. Bit preoccupied,” she said guiltily. Typically, she would have liked to watch a movie with him on the couch, nibble on some crisps.

“No worries, love. I’ll see you when you can. Take care of him, I know you can.”

With that, he pecked a sweet kiss to her lips, sliding a few fingers against her palm so that she could feel his happiness.

“F’course. See you in a week,” she replied, watching as he trotted out the front and hailed a cab.

It had gotten to the point, rather quickly in fact, that she couldn’t imagine her life without Arvin in it, and, as she turned around to return to Crowley, she considered just how painful it would be to tear apart 6000 years of closeness.

She sighed, budging him over carefully on the couch and sitting next to him, keeping a gentle hand on him at all times.

***

Crowley stormed out after fifteen days on her couch, without a word spared against her protests. Conflicted about how to handle it, she let him go, and called Arvin for advice.

“I just… I’m so conflicted on how to handle him… if he were human, I would know what to do, but this is just… so much _bigger than me._ I made a promise to Aziraphale that I’d look after him, but… what if all Crowley needs is to be alone, for a bit? Come to terms with this on his own, without some meddling human?”

“All good points…” Arvin’s cool tone slid from the phone, but did nothing to quell Penny’s anxiety.

“But… he’s no good alone. I mean… he’s a demon, he isn’t _meant_ to be good, but… oh, you know what I mean…”

“I do,” Arvin said, endlessly patient.

“It’s just,” Penny started again, pacing her sitting room. “He gets very… destructive, both toward himself and others, when he’s like this. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he’d actually _hurt anyone,_ he hasn’t the stomach for it, but… I feel like I’ve dropped a time bomb on all of London, and I really should… you know… help? What would you do? Would you go after him or give him time? Space?”

There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line as Arvin thought. “Sounds like you’re less worried that he’ll hurt someone else, though, and more worried that he’ll hurt himself, right?”

Penny exhaled hard. “Yes.”

“Then I’d go after him,” Arvin said, his voice fading for a moment as he spoke to someone on his end, and Penny suddenly felt guilty that she hadn’t even bothered to ask if he had time to talk. “The best you can do is try, Pen. Ring him, see if you can get him talking. If he doesn’t answer, give him a day, and then go by. He’s a bloody _demon_, so if he doesn’t want you around, he can make it so. And like you said, you can only do so much as a human. I suspect he’s got all the coping mechanisms he needs, after 6000 years, you just need to remind him that they’re there. And if you can’t, well… at least you tried. Don’t exhaust yourself trying to solve an inhuman problem with human methods.”

Penny smiled, finally able to take a few deep breaths. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I’ll phone him in a few. Thanks, love, for listening. I’m sure I sound like a lunatic, rambling on, worried about a demon…”

“You really, _really _don’t, Penny,” he replied casually. “If I didn’t know what he was, and just thought he was human, this would all be perfectly normal. And if I’ve learned anything since meeting you, it’s that _what_ someone is has no bearing on _how_ someone is.”

Adoration swelled in Penny’s chest, and she found herself desperately wishing for one of Arvin’s much-too-long-but-really-perfect hugs.

“Oh, I taught you that, did I?” she quipped with a grin.

“Well I suppose you must have done, if the witchcraft didn’t frighten me off. Amusing Tinder profile, come to think of it. _Twenty-five years-old feminist and witch, studying psychology and will analyze you at every turn. Must love demons.”_

She sniggered, “oh, come off it, I don’t even have Tinder, and you know it.”

“True, true… on that note, is that one of his?” Arvin asked speculatively.

“I reckon not. Too evil for him, that. Perhaps it was one of Aziraphale’s well-meaning cock ups?” she asked, more certain of it by the second.

“Right!” Arvin exclaimed with a laugh, followed by some stern background chatter. “Oh, sorry Pen, I’d better get back to it, Mr. Bychance is in possession of a negative patience, he’ll be missing this correspondence.”

“Right, sorry. Thanks for the advice, really. Can I see you this weekend? If I’m not… er… demon-sitting?”

“Yes, sounds wonderful. I’ll see you then!”

When Penny knocked at Crowley’s Mayfair flat two days later, after an increasingly frustrating number of unanswered phone calls, there was no response, and the door was unlocked. Once inside, she was shocked and troubled to see that the entire place was tossed—the couch was shredded, the coffee table flipped and broken, and belongings were scattered about like so many leaves.

With mounting concern, Penny hailed another cabby, as Crowley’s portal seemed only to work for him and Aziraphale, and directed the driver to SoHo.

Silently thanking Aziraphale for providing her with a set of keys, she pushed inside.

The first thing she noticed was the complete lack of light—Aziraphale typically had about a thousand honey-colored sconces lighting the place in a kind of mild, dust-mote ridden haze, and he also left most of the shades half-pulled, to allow in a hint of natural light.

Now, though, all the lights were out, and every shutter was pulled. The bookshop resembled a cavernous maw, each bookshelf slowly descending back, back, back into total darkness, like rows of teeth beckoning down an equally terrifying throat. The door at the top of the stairs sat ajar, and the clean titanium and slate peeking through confirmed Penny’s suspicions. Crowley was definitely here.

“Crowley?” she called cautiously, pulling her phone from her trouser pocket and using it to illuminate her way through the depths and toward the back room, where she knew he likely was.

And there, he was; flat on his back on the medallion rug, surrounded by a cacophony of empty wine, scotch, and assorted liquor bottles. He was holding another—a slightly green, antique-looking bottle—in a very unsteady hand, and black scales could be seen protruding from his shirt’s collar and cuffs. In the gloom, his piercing yellow eyes were fairly glowing, glinting there like a cat’s as they caught any hint of light.

“MmmmPenny,” Crowley slurred, clutching the bottle’s neck precariously as he pointed at her with a finger, simultaneously tilting the bottle and spilling a healthy amount of molasses-colored liquid onto the rug. “Bollockssss,” he hissed, barely turning his head to look at the stain, his eyelids apparently now operating separately. He hiccupped. “You rang?”

"Jesus…” Penny cursed at the sight.

“I go by Crowley,” he garbled back at her, attempting to grin mischievously but really just managing a pathetic, lopsided thing that in a former life might have been a smile.

“Fuck, come on Crowley, you’re better than this,” she said, quickly leaning down and snatching the bottle from him. His fingers didn’t even try to grasp for it until she was already halfway across the room, yanking the blinds open and flooding both of them with the azure-tinted afternoon glow of SoHo.

“Am I?” Crowley asked, raising a hand to shield his eyes and following it with a very weak hiss.

“Yes, you are. What would he think of you, wallo—”

_"Don’t!”_ Crowley growled, vicious and deep. He covered both eyes with the heels of his palms, groaning into them. “Don’t talk about him please, scold me all you like. But just… don’t twist the knife.”

Penny softened, setting the bottle on Aziraphale’s desk and drawing up the blinds on another window. Crowley hissed again.

As she approached, Penny found the blanket Aziraphale had made for him, crumpled up and discarded on the edge of the couch, and she sighed, picking it up.

She’d known its power, Aziraphale had told her that he made it from his feathers, but she’d never touched it. Her clairvoyance activated, but it was strange—there were no emotions to glean, like she would touching skin. There was only a general, low-level reassurance to it, something she could only describe as concentrated _angel, _but a very specific angel. It was love and spite, patience and irritation, temperance and hedonism. It was _Aziraphale._

With a heavy sigh, she sank to her knees next to Crowley, depositing the blanket across his stomach.

He whimpered, and for a moment, Penny thought he might cry. Instead, he went quiet—hands still pressed to his eyes, breaths shallow and pained.

“Can you sober up for me?” Penny asked, resting a hand on his knee.

He began shaking his head, and groaned. “Nuh uh. Don’ want to.”

“Crowley, come on, I—”

“_No. This hurts lesssss. Makessss me forget. _For a minute, anyway,” he grumbled, letting his hands fall back to the floor and closing his eyes.

“Well… then I have something to say, and I want you to listen up, because I’m not repeating myself when you’re sober,” she said, hearing in her tone one her mother used to use on her and her sister when they were being particularly bratty.

He angled his head toward her, slowly opening his eyes to peer at her drunkenly.

“Well, this is something I think we’ve needed to discuss for a while, and…erm, no time like the present. I think… I think we’re done, you and me.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, and he struggled to push himself up onto his elbows, and when she saw the terror in his eyes, she realized he likely thought she meant the Witch’s Trinity.

“Oh, no, Crowley, not that. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. Can’t have Satan ruining a perfectly good love story, can I?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at her, and she could tell he was completely unaware of the fact that she was referring to him and Aziraphale.

“No, I meant… us, you and me, erm… _sexually_, I mean. I think… now is as good a time as any to cut things off. It was… _fun_, while it lasted, but we both knew it wouldn’t. I’ve got Arvin, and I really like him, and I think it’s pretty clear that… I’m not the one you want to be touching.”

Crowley groaned pitifully, collapsing back to the floor and throwing an elbow over his eyes once more.

“S’pose you’re right,” he said, his voice half-muffled by his arm. “If I’d known the last time would be _the last time,_ I might have pulled some better moves,” he finished, a hint of a smile playing across his lips. “And to be h’nest, I really only… sought humans out for that b’cuz… cuz…”

Penny didn’t finish his sentence for him, but knew it regardless—_‘because I couldn’t have him.’_

“We talked ‘bout it, you know. Him’n me,” Crowley groused, rearranging on the rug.

Intrigued, Penny squeezed his knee in reassurance. “Yeah?”

“Yesssss,” said Crowley, his long, forked tongue flaring out momentarily. “Ssssaid he’s not completely opposs… oppss… not against the idea. But he ssssaid he wanted to wait, n’til all these… ruddy… _trials_ are over, sssaid Heaven would be watching too closely. But now he’s… he’s gone, and every time this hap’ns, he draws back, regresssses, _forgets._ And _God, Satan… anybody…_ I don’t want him to forget! He’ll come back, and… I’ll have to start all over. _I don’t think I can do that, Penny. _I can’t, I can’t wait anymore. _I can’t…”_

His voice was becoming frantic, so Penny reached up and grasped Crowley’s wrist, careful to keep her fingers on the sleeve and not his flesh—she wasn’t sure she could handle the density of what he was feeling.

“Crowley! Crowley. I heard him, at the airport. He promised that wouldn’t happen. He s—”

“Promissses, promises,” Crowley growled, weakly attempting to pull his hand away and immediately giving up when Penny didn’t relent. “I hate to break it to you, but Heaven makesss a lot of promises they don’t keep. ‘Ziraphale’s no different.”

“Now, don’t say something you’ll regret,” she cautioned, squeezing his wrist. “He’s _very different. _Maybe in the past, sure. But had he kissed you then? Had you groomed each other’s wings? _Bought a bloody house together?”_

Crowley sat up once more, and Penny was forced to release her hold on him to allow it. He glared at her analytically.

“How’d you know that? Th’wing grooming bit. I didn’t tell you that,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, er… nobody did. It was just… a little while back, I stopped by the shop to say hello. You were still sleeping, but Aziraphale was up and pattering about, cataloguing, you know him; work’s never finished. But, erm… he was kind of… absently… well… he had… he had one of your feathers. And er… how do I put this mildly? He was treating it like a first edition signed Wilde. I made my own assumptions.”

Crowley paled. “Right. Yeah.” Against the pale skin, the demon’s pink blush was all the more noticeable, and while Penny found it quite adorable, she elected not to mention it.

“Do you want to get off the floor now?” she asked, studying his naked eyes as they immediately lost all mirth. He collapsed back down to the floor with a groan.

“No, s’better this way… it’s not… he’s not…” Crowley’s voice trailed off as he fell back, and a hand slowly went to the blanket across him and gripped it so hard his hand began to shake.

Penny thought she understood. The couch was too familiar, the chair, the table. They all held a ghost of Aziraphale.

With a sigh, Penny shifted so she could lie next to him, against his side and using his shoulder to prop up her head. And when her cheek contacted the slightest of skin at his collar bone, she felt it—the devastation, the agony, the giant gaping maw inside of him that was slowly sucking everything else in, like a black hole. Tears sprung to her eyes with the force of it.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I know it’s not much, but I’m here. Whatever you need,” she mumbled, winding a hand around him and pulling him tightly against her. Perhaps it helped, perhaps it didn’t, but she wasn’t about to let him go anytime soon.

He made a pitiful sound, bringing a hand up to bury his face in it. “Yeah, but I only need one thing. And you can’t provide it.”

“I know,” she replied, her throat growing tighter. “But I’ll be here anyway.”

**

Crowley was going through the stages of grief, that much was becoming abundantly clear. Denial had only lasted as long as his stint on her couch, as he obviously tried to trick himself that, if he stayed at Penny’s, he could continue to believe that in SoHo, an angel was in a bookshop, drinking cocoa and reading a book.

After that, the anger set in. It was what made Crowley completely upend his entire flat, save for the plants, which likely believed they were next and were making a valiant effort to be an unearthly shade of green.

Not that Penny would know. After that night in the shop, Crowley became distant. He went back to his flat, and locked himself in like some kind of moping cave troll. And he refused to allow Penny in. She went by several times a week, sometimes every day, just to get verbally berated through the door.

She never held it against him, no matter how vicious and vindictive his insults became. _‘Go away, you bloody useless human.’ ‘Fuck off, you’ve no idea what I’m going through and you never will.’ ‘You’re an insect to me, you know that? An ant begging to care for an atom bomb.’ ‘Piss off back to your puny life, it’s short enough as it is.’_

She supposed she could force him to let her in, take advantage of that piece of the Trinity, but…so long as he didn’t appear to be hurting himself, then she had no right to force him. If he needed to hide, to seethe, to spit venom and constrict around his little world, then who was she to deny him?

Occasionally the anger would wane, and she’d be able to weasel her way back in—pushing the suddenly unlocked door open, or allowing him in when he showed up at hers. He never apologized for the things he’d said in anger, at least not with words, but he always offered an olive branch of some kind; presenting her his hand so she could feel his regret in their contact, or simply just approaching her and letting his forehead fall against her shoulder, a long sigh saying all that he couldn’t. _‘I’m sorry for what I said, it’s the only way I know how to deal with this. Please don’t get frustrated, please don’t leave me too. You’re all I’ve got, and I’m not sure I could survive it if you left too. Please don’t listen to me when I shout and scream. I don’t mean it, I don’t mean any of it.’_

And while trying to glean the mental health of a _demon_ was a monumental task… it was one she’d promised to take. Not just to Aziraphale, but to her ancestors, to Satan when she took Crowley from him, to God, if She was involved. When she’d enacted the Trinity, she’d agreed to any powers that might be to respect and cherish the gift that was given to her. Even if it showed up to her place in the form of a giant serpent constricting around a bottle.

His rage lasted more than a year. It hit a tipping point when he summoned up a sledge hammer and took it to the passenger side door of his beloved Bentley, screaming at it incoherently for daring to be empty, to even _have _a passenger seat.

That was when Penny finally snapped, using the Trinity’s bond to command the demon for the first time in years.

“Fix that right now!” she yelled, pointing at the car as Crowley paced and hissed at her, but waved a hand to miraculously mend the metal. “And when you’re done, get whatever you need, and come stay with me. No arguing. You’re staying with me until you can learn to put a bloody cap on your _fucking anger.”_

***

Staying with her had been immensely helpful—just being nearby to notice when he was spiraling, being there _at all. _After a few days of recuperating, he went on an apology joy-ride in the Bentley, apparently ending up in Tadfield, of all places. And upon his return, he seemed more... perhaps not at peace, but calm. Something about Crowley had changed for the better.

Penny found that she actually enjoyed having him living with her. He was quiet and respectful of her space, but craved interaction and closeness. When he wasn’t in the guest room, he was seated at the living room bay window, in any number of twisting, unnatural sitting positions, watching the streets of London. And even though she was fairly certain he’d been _avoiding _sleep, for a reason she had yet to discern, she did catch him dozing a number of times when the rain against the window created a soothing rhythm that lulled him to sleep.

He was usually quiet, but in a sort of pensive, accepting way. He was even beginning to show a hint of normalcy—cracking saucy jokes and generally being a nuisance. Not to Penny, never to Penny. He showed his appreciation for her concern by _not _making her a target of his wiles. But he was becoming a bit familiarly rowdy.

He went for walks around the streets of London, sometimes with Penny by his side, and on those walks, he pulled his usual tricks—making lids on coffee cups give out, opening the locks on briefcases, and creating puddles where there previously were none.

He even attended her graduation ceremony and later the party, where he was, surprisingly, lively and energetic, engaging all present in card games and fun history facts. And, if he divulged a few incorrect ‘facts’ that some would spread like wildfire, well... Penny wasn’t about to stop him.

She was trying to be optimistic about his newfound enthusiasm, but she knew what this was—Crowley had reached the bargaining phase of his grieving. He was reaching out to others, and searching for his place in the landscape that Aziraphale was absent from.

After graduation, Penny decided to take a small break before seeking permanent employment, and went to look after the bookshop. The hours she kept were quite like Aziraphale’s, as she was mostly seeing to the dust and maintenance needs, and those were quite difficult with meddling customers in the way. In fact, the more invested she became, the more she began to understand and empathize with Aziraphale’s opinion of customers.

She had suggested implementing an entirely new organizational method (recalling the hoops she’d jumped through just to locate the book that eventually led her to casting the Trinity), but Crowley had become irate at the very suggestion, hissing and groaning about ‘his angel not being able to find anything.’

Crowley accompanied her whenever she went by, and even helped, most days. And, when she could manage it without being caught by the self-conscious demon, she would occasionally watch him as he worked.

It appeared incredibly therapeutic, working with the things that Aziraphale cherished so deeply. Crowley was incredibly gentle and careful as he slid books from their shelves, his hands cradling the spines delicately and lifting them to ensure the lower edges didn’t drag through the dust on the shelves. He inspected each and every one with the reverence one might show the holy grail, easing them open to ensure the integrity of the binding, then loosely but oh so tenderly flipping the pages to free them of more dust. It was enrapturing, to watch Crowley, unguarded as he caressed leather spines and analyzed yellowing pages. It was almost intimate, Penny thought, the way he cared for Aziraphale’s books, despite having little to no interest in them himself. He fell into a sort of calm trance, the repetitiveness of the action lulling him onto a relaxed, fluid sort of state, his eyes half-lidded (as they were usually uncovered, when in the shop), and his breaths even and measured. In fact, Penny made a point of stopping by more often, just to ensure he spent more time like that.

She really hadn’t had a plan the first time she went, other than to put Crowley in a familiar, safe place. But the more time they spent there, the more they developed a plan, a routine. Without really putting it to voice, it seemed they had decided to go through Aziraphale’s entire collection, one by one, ensuring the state of them, and taking note.

Penny was cataloguing them, at least so Aziraphale would have some form of inventory list. Not to more easily make a sale, never that, but simply to keep track of what and how many he had (although Penny expected that Aziraphale already _had _such a list, but it existed only in his vast memory.

It worked for nearly two whole years. One would think, in that amount of time, that the job would be complete. But one would then be challenged to look into the nooks, crannies, couch cushions, and underneath the furniture of Aziraphale’s shop, and one would start to believe that the books were procreating. There were books _everywhere,_ and oftentimes he had duplicates and triplicates of the same book, but in various publishing years and editions.

Penny had begun to find it therapeutic too. In the years that had passed, she had joined the practice of a renowned child psychologist in central London, and Arvin had graduated to full solicitor under Milton Bychance himself. Life, with all its stresses and triumphs, had gone on, as it had a tendency to do. But those everyday stresses made an escape necessary—the nature of her profession being one of struggle. It was rewarding. But taxing. So she had found solace, just as Crowley had, in the methodical cleansing and upkeep of A.Z. Fell and Co. Booksellers.

She tried to speak to Aziraphale at least once a week, providing him with some much-needed familiar conversation, and of course, updates on Crowley. For those two years now, those updates had been relatively stagnant, with Crowley maintaining a muted, half-enthused attitude toward his resumed semi-normal routine.

And the trips to the shop were certainly maintaining that state, and Penny often told Aziraphale as much. His shop was the sun at the center of Crowley’s orbit, and it seemed to be sustaining his need for Aziraphale’s presence when he couldn’t physically be there. She described, in vivid detail, how meticulous and thoughtful the demon was with Aziraphale’s books, and he was simply delighted to hear it.

She was almost starting to think this new status quo could hold.

It was a crisp February morning, snow falling quietly against the shop windows and creating a calm, dream-like world beyond the curtains. The chill had worked its way into the bones of the building, as it was wont to do on very old structures, and Crowley had lit the fireplace in the back room (sparing a miracle to ensure no extra firewood was needed to keep it roaring). It crackled pleasantly, filling the shop with warmth and serenity. Penny had absently chosen one of Aziraphale’s old records and put it on the turntable, sending out the low, reassuring notes of Tchaikovsky through the shelves. She herself had booted up Aziraphale’s archaic computer and was using one of the many decades-outdated programs to enter her catalogued list of books into an electronic database. If the system held (and Aziraphale actually _used it_ when he returned), it would enable him to search through titles and authors alike, and locate the shelving unit and exact location. He hadn’t actually _had _any markings on his shelves to delineate between them, so Penny had spent an egregious amount of time on eBay searching for something ornate enough that Aziraphale might approve, and once she’d found the perfect ones (intricate hand-made bronze plates marked with Roman numerals that had likely been removed from a decommissioned library somewhere), she carefully screwed them onto the ends of each shelving unit. Now it was simply a matter of matching her hand-drawn map with her list of books, and assigning each one to the correct Roman numeral. And it wouldn’t have been such slow-going if Aziraphale’s computer wasn’t older than dirt, but with the lovely atmosphere in the shop, and the cup of cocoa she’d whipped up... she couldn’t really be _too _out of sorts over it.

Crowley had been off in the shelves somewhere for hours, doing as he’d always done—diligently checking over every morsel of Aziraphale’s love as he could. She could sometimes hear him, finding a book whose condition warranted removal and restoration, sliding the little thing carefully from its slot and placing it in a pile on the floor to be taken to the back room. He’d amassed quite a pile of books-in-need-of-care, but as yet, had been too frightened of mucking them up to attempt it himself. Penny had tried to get him to seek out tutorials on restoring old books, but he vehemently declined, always mumbling about how Aziraphale’s touch was best.

She wasn’t sure what spurred her to go check on him. Perhaps it was the too-lengthy silence she’d been hearing—the kind you only recognize when you begin to think... how long has that gone on? But regardless of that, there was something heavy in her chest, something pulling at her and spurring her to action. Like going up a dark set of stairs and feeling the increasing need to turn and look behind you.

She set her cocoa aside, humming along to whatever recognizable tune the gramophone was serenading the shop with now as she perused through aisles of shelves, seeking Crowley out.

She found him near the atrium, in a short row of books, the blue-tinted, snow-burdened sunlight from the high foyer windows beaming down and painting him in a kind of renaissance light. He was still as stone, holding an open book in his palms, and for a moment, one might mistake him for reading it.

But he wasn’t. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were visibly shiny from tears.

“Crowley?” Penny asked as she hurried to his side.

Her voice and movement startled him, and he dropped the book with a _thud _to the ancient hardwood, turning to face her with a look of pained alarm.

“Crowley, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” she asked, already offering him her hand, palm-up, so that he could answer without words.

His mouth opened to answer, but closed again, his expression frightened but guarded as he raised a hand and placed it in hers.

It hit her with the force of a double-decker bus—her breath leaving her lungs in a desperate gasp, and she couldn’t inhale. Her ears began to ring and her vision glimmered and darkened at the corners. She could feel tears spring to her eyes as she registered just what this cataclysmic force truly was.

Heartbreak. Melancholy. Sadness. Depression. Sorrow. Words that would have to suffice to describe something so monumental that it transcended language. Penny was fairly certain that her tiny human mind was incapable of comprehending the vast expanse of it—like looking up at the sky and hoping to see the whole universe.

_“Fuck,” _she gasped, dropping her hand away and finally inhaling hard as the stimulus stopped overwhelming her nervous system.

Desperately worried, she looked up to meet his eyes, but found him stumbling back to slam his back into the bookshelf. His hands rose and he covered his face with them, releasing a heartbreaking wail into them and curling in on himself. He began to tremble and hyperventilate, and Penny rushed forward to embrace him as tight as she could, careful to avoid touching skin. The intensity of his emotions would likely floor her, and that wouldn’t be very helpful.

His knees buckled at the first contact, and Penny tried to ease him down, careful to avoid the book he’d dropped, as he’d likely be upset with himself over it, but both their knees hit the hardwood quite hard.

He began to sob so hard it ceased to be sound, and turned to just violent heaves in her arms. She tried any number of things to calm him—stroking his hair, talking quietly to him, holding him so tight her arms went sore. She found herself wishing she could miracle things like they could, because she suspected his angel blanket might help.

Nothing but time made it begin to ebb. After several long, dragging minutes, his shaking subsided, his breaths evened out, and his grip on her shirt loosened and eventually withdrew.

“S’rry,” he mumbled, still leaning against her chest. “D-don’t... don’t know what came over me...”

“No, shhh, don’t apologize. Never apologize for feeling sad,” she said, continuing to hold him until he hinted otherwise. “That’s a human thing, and a bloody useless one to boot; apologizing because you think your emotions are annoying to those around you. It’s fine to feel them, it’s fine to _experience _them. _Let yourself.”_

Crowley scoffed, beginning to lean up. She let him, but kept a palm firmly pressed against his back for support.

He wiped at his face and gave her a bitter smile.

“Bloody psychologist. Quit analyzing me,” he said with a bitter laugh.

“No analysis needed, Crowley. I can’t say I know what you’re going through, because I don’t. But I can try to help, if... if you’ll let me?”

Something went terribly wrong, then. Crowley went completely stone-faced, a far-off and dazed look in his unguarded eyes, and then he was rocketing to his feet.

“I’m er... I’m gunna go, er, home...” he mumbled, looking around like he suddenly didn’t know where he was.

Penny cautiously rose to her feet, noting the spooked-horse demeanor in Crowley’s body language.

“Alright, let me just turn the computer and the music off, and we’ll go...” she said, turning toward the back room.

“No!” Crowley practically shrieked, then he visibly made an effort to dial himself back. “No. Er, I mean... _my home._ I c-can’t... I dunno, I don’t... want...”

It wasn’t new to Penny, Crowley stumbling over the words ‘want’ and ‘need.’ Both him and Aziraphale did it frequently, and it was quite heartbreaking to witness. Clearly, the overlords of both Heaven and Hell had gone to great lengths to beat the individuality from their number. The wants and needs of the singular were unimportant, only the needs of the group. It made a cold fury pound through her veins, and she quite viciously found herself wishing she’d done more against Lucifer when she met him.

“You want to go back to your place? That’s fine, Crowley, but... can I at least get you there? I want to make sure you’re alri-”

“M’fine, Penny, I’m fine,” he babbled, hurriedly fishing his keys from his pocket. His frenzy was concerning.

“Here, take her back, if you want. I’ll come get it... er, whenever... I don’t know. But don’t bother with a cab fare, just take it.”

When Penny didn’t move to take the keys, he slammed them onto the bookshelf to his immediate right, and spun to face the stairs leading up to the portal to his flat.

“Crowley, can I just...” Penny started, but he interjected again,

“No, Penny. Please, just...”

With that, he shook his head, and his midnight wings erupted from his back, rattling the books on their shelves a bit with the force. Before she could say another word, he rocketed up above the shelving units to the landing, and disappeared through the darkened portal to his flat. Without another word, the door slammed, and the lock could be heard as it fell into place.

***

Penny was bawling so bad when Arvin answered the call that she could barely talk.

“Babe, hold on, take a deep breath, I can’t understand you,” he begged gently, his worried tone practically seeping out of her mobile like honey in the line.

It didn’t go over her head that Arvin was suddenly acting the psychologist. That thought made it possible for her to grin, at least at the irony, and take a deep, shaking breath.

“I mucked it up,” she started, trying not to spill her words so fast that they were unintelligible. “I said something to Crowley the other day, something that set him off. He went back to his place and shut me out, but I just... I assumed he needed to be alone. But this morning I started to... _feel something,_ I can’t describe it, Arvin, it was like someone was standing on my chest. And it’s just gotten worse and worse. You remember I told you my clairvoyance has gotten consistently stronger when it comes to them?”

“Yeah,” Arvin replied cautiously.

“Well, I gave Aziraphale a call. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t him. I mean... he’s always a bit sad these days, but... _God,_ not like this. I didn’t let on what was going on, I don’t want him to panic, but now I’ve lied to him, and I can’t check on Crowley, he’s locked himself in, and I was banging on the door, and he wouldn’t let me in. I even used the Trinity to command him, and he wasn’t even answering me, Arvin, and... I... I’m so worried, at least the last time this happened, he yelled at me. He gets destructive, and... _fuck, _I dunno what to do...”

The sound of shuffling could be heard on the other end, followed by the jingling of keys.

“I’m on my way. You at his place right now?” Arvin said.

Penny scoffed. “Yeah, I’m standing outside his door like a lunatic. I’d pick the lock, but he’s done something to it with his powers. Oh! That reminds me! Is my book bag still in your car?”

“Er, hold on, let me check.”

More rustling, and a door slamming. “Yeah.”

“Good,” she said, rubbing a temple and sighing. “Bring it up when you come, I may have to hex the door open. And prepare yourself... he’s in a really dark place... I can feel it...”

She sank to the floor outside Crowley’s flat, leaning against the painfully modern slate gray walls, and focused on what she was getting from Crowley.

For years now, the Trinity had been strengthening her ability, but only when it came to Crowley and Aziraphale. It wasn’t clean or clear cut, and she usually couldn’t tell who it was coming from. Sometimes there was a slight signature to it—something like a brief, enveloping hug that felt like them. Crowley’s was heavy and rich, like a down blanket, while Aziraphale’s was light and airy. But this... this was so dark, so suffocating, that she couldn’t discern anything else about it other than its dire consequences.

By the time Arvin arrived, Penny was feeling like she was suffocating—her vision tunneling and her ears beginning to ring. She’d never felt anything like it—a blinding white terror that made her feel like she was in a nightmare; a nightmare in which she was trapped inside a falling lift, her heart in her throat, but there was no end. She wasn’t going to wake up, wasn’t going to _stop _feeling this all-consuming helplessness.

“Pen! Penny! Can you hear me? Christ almighty, do you need a hospital?!”

Arvin was yelling, one hand softly but forcefully gripping and shaking her arm.

She shook her head, his intrusion helping her to focus through the cacophony of emotions, and she practically dove for her bag where it was hanging from his shoulder. Before she could begin fishing through it for The Pocket Book of Everyday Hexes, something hit her—like a fist closing around her throat—and she dropped the whole bag.

“Fuck! I have to get in there, something’s wrong,” she gasped, feeling sweat beading at her temple.

“Alright, what do you need?” Arvin said calmly but urgently. “Which one?”

“The hex book. About halfway in, there’s an earmarked page. Should say something about breaking magic locks,” she said, waving a trembling hand in the general direction of the book.

Arvin had yanked the book out and practically ripped it open. “Will it be called Alohamora?” he asked with a lopsided grin as he flipped pages hurriedly.

The time certainly wasn’t right for jokes, but Penny barked a laugh frantically, appreciating the levity, however brief.

“Oh! Here! Reversing magical locks!” he exclaimed with excitement, holding the book out to her. She snatched it, feeling an increasing sense of dizziness and nausea as she stood and hurriedly read off the incantation. Her Latin was likely horrendous and botched, but it did the trick—electricity crackled in the air, making the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end, and the lock audibly turned.

“Crowley!” she cried, slamming her whole weight against the door as she barged in, the book clutched tightly to her chest.

The flat wasn’t destroyed like last time, so that was a decent sign... hopefully. What wasn’t a good sign was the brick wall of emotion that hit her so hard she stumbled to her knees in the foyer.

It was heavy and thick, like oil—a depression so immense it felt like it was lodging in her airways. Her stomach turned, and she gagged, barely managing to keep her lunch down.

“Find him,” she begged through tears. Arvin raced past her through the apartment, calling out Crowley’s name. She didn’t know what he would find, but she knew this—he wouldn’t be able to help him.

“Come on. Get up,” she growled at herself, pushing to legs that felt like gnawed-on toothpicks. No sooner had she risen, Arvin was yelling from the bathroom down the hall.

“Fuck! Penny, in the bathroom, and bring that bloody book!”

His tone did not bely anything good. She rocketed down the hallway, a litany of curses spewing from her mouth before she gripped the doorframe and swung through the doorway.

Crowley was lying on the tile floor, tremors running the length of his body. His wings were out and spasming behind him, and the force of it was tossing an absolutely obscene amount of pill bottles... _empty ones..._ around on the floor.

“Fuck!” she yelped, dropping to her knees and ignoring the pain of the slate tiles. “Crowley, can you hear me?! You have to sober up, right now, you’re gunna discor—“

The moment her skin touched his, her vision blacked out and her heart slammed painfully in her ribs. It was an emotion so intense she couldn’t recognize it, probably wasn’t capable of even translating it into something a human could understand. All she knew was that it was suffocating.

“Shit, I ca-can’t touch him,” she whimpered, yanking her hand back. “Sit him up, in case he throws up. Mind his wings, though...”

While Arvin struggled to pull a convulsing Crowley upright onto his lap, wings and feathers going everywhere, Penny frantically flipped through the book to find a spell for cleansing toxins. Anything in this tiny modern book would likely be barely powerful enough to help him, but it might be just enough to keep him from discorporating. Because as it was, he didn’t appear to even be conscious.

“Fuck, here we go,” Penny breathed, trying to calm her breathing enough to get the words out. This spell would be better with burned sage, but she didn’t exactly run around with the stuff, and she certainly didn’t expect Crowley to have any. Making a mental note to begin keeping some in her purse, she started reading.

She had to repeat the phrases three times to even begin to see a difference, and even then his shaking barely subsided. She repeated them a few more times for good measure, eyeing him every few words for improvement.

Without warning, Crowley jolted from Arvin’s grasp, hitting the floor hard and landing on one of his wings. The other shot out in an effort to stabilize himself, and hit Arvin hard in the shoulder, which sent him tumbling back against the wall.

“S’rry,” Crowley mumbled, clawing at the floor and dragging himself toward the toilet. “M’gunna be sick...”

Arvin recovered himself and shuffled forward to help Crowley, shooting a worried glance at Penny.

Before either of them could say anything, Crowley was retching violently into the toilet, his rail-thin body heaving with the effort and his hands trembling where they gripped the toilet seat. Arvin supported him with a hand on either shoulder, one of them migrating to rub his back.

When it seemed like the fit was waning, and Crowley fell back to prop his rear on his heels, Penny spoke up.

“Crowley, you need to sober up. _Now,” _she begged, noting his ghost-white skin, vicious shivers, and reddened eyes.

“No,” he growled, wiping his mouth and sniffing. “I just wanted it to stop. Hell would hurt less. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I want to be discorporated. Ever think about_ that?!_”

His tone was venomous, but Penny could hear it—that small, broken part under the surface that was screaming for help.

“Crowley, you don’t mean that. How can y—”

“_Maybe I do mean it!” _Crowley hissed, turning to look at her critically. Head-on, he was even more of a mess—heavy bags under his eyes, skin sallow like old pages, lips with hardly any color. His wings sank to droop behind him, gathering against Arvin and bending the feathers almost to breaking. “It would take months, maybe years to get a new corporation, and they’d probably torture me in the meantime. And I say again— _it would hurt less! _And at least I’d be distracted by something. Rather than just... feeling this... this... empty, awful, numb, fucking... alternative reality.”

He paused to wipe a palm across his face, and even that minimal motion caused him to lose his balance and go tumbling toward the sleek glass door to his shower. Arvin tried to catch him, but with the wings cluttering up his arms, he really just fell to his knees next to Crowley.

Penny was apprehensive to use this tactic, the words heavy and burdened on her tongue, but it might be the only way to make him hear her.

“Crowley... what would Aziraphale think?” she practically whispered, setting the book down on the counter and gently holding a hand out to him.

The look of pure anguish that crossed his features wounded her, and made her instantly regret it.

_“Of course he’d be fucking disappointed, you don’t think I know that?!” _Crowley screamed, shoving Arvin away and struggling to his feet. He approached her, breaching her personal space to let his intense yellow eyes meet hers. Notably, however, he did not touch her—even in this state, even as he fell apart before her eyes, he was wary of hurting her with his emotions. “I’m disappointed!” he went on, his voice shrill. “I keep trying and I just... keep failing! This whole experience has taught me one thing, and it’s crystal-fucking-clear; I’m incapable of changing. He tried to teach me, and I thought I could learn. But I can’t. She broke me when She cast me out, made sure I lost too much on the way down. And I stitched myself back together for _millennia_, Penny. But at some point the seams are gonna give. And you know what? I’m tired. I’m fucking tired of trying to put myself back together, but missing one crucial piece. I’m _tired _of trying to hold all this liquid imperfection together in my hands. I’m... just fucking _tired_.”

Before she could respond or even take a breath, he slipped past her, his massive wings unfurling to the side and brushing both walls as he stumbled, disoriented and weak, down the hallway.

“Crowley, wait, please!” she cried, running after him.

He waved a hand dismissively, and suddenly her legs were unresponsive, her lips held shut by some unseen force. And without another word, Crowley threw the doors open to his balcony and leapt, the only sign that he’d ever even been there a few ebony feathers blowing back into the flat.

Almost as soon as he vanished from view, the hold on her dissipated, and she gasped, nearly losing her footing with the force of it.

“Crowley!” she yelled after him, sprinting to the balcony and slamming into the bannister, her hair whipping wildly into her face as the updraft caught on the high-rise. She scanned the night sky, looking for any hint of those green-tinted midnight wings, but they were lost to the blanket of stars.

“Crowley! Come back!” she cried, feeling tears roll down her face as she burdened the words with magical intent.

But the Trinity’s control over him only worked if he could hear it.

The sounds of London filled her ears as she waited, heart hammering like thunderclaps in her ears as she listened—honking cars, bus brakes, bustling people down below. But no flap of wings, no rustling feathers.

Crowley was gone.

Face buried in her hands, Penny sank to the balcony floor, great heaving sobs rising up and stealing her breath. Within seconds Arvin was with her, an arm flung over her shoulder and pulling her against his chest. Her cheek contacted his neck, and suddenly she could feel his reassuring energy, his worry, his _love_. It was an anchor mooring her in place, while the sea foam and raging waters of a broken promise twisted around her.

Her breath came in shuddering gasps as she spoke into his sternum.

“What am I gunna tell Aziraphale? He’s going to be so worried, and I promised! I promised I’d keep an eye on him, and... _God_, where has he gone? What if he doesn’t come back?! He’ll be all alone, and then I... I failed too. And he’s... he’s in so much pain, Arvin, I couldn’t even comprehend it. It was so much bigger than me. I just want him to be better, to be happy, I want it for both of them! And I _can’t, I—“_

“Penny! Penny, shhh,” Arvin’s voice was soothing and calm, and his arm was a reassuring blanket around her. With guilt settling heavy in her stomach, she wondered if she had just gotten closer, just given this to Crowley, just been his blanket, his anchor... if he would have stayed.

“You’re only _human, _love,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “An incredible one, mind, with talent and skill beyond compare. If _anyone_, anyone at all could handle those two, it’s you. But at a certain point, this is beyond your control. You have to...”

Arvin’s words descended into a hum of noise as Penny’s brain went into overdrive. She _wasn’t _justhuman. She was a human in a magical pact with an angel and a demon, and there had to be _something _she could do.

She interrupted him with a kiss, his words muffling against her lips. “Thank you for trying to talk me down,” she said after pulling away, determination suddenly falling over the earlier hopelessness in heavy waves that crested with budding excitement as ideas started bubbling up.

There _was _something she could do to handle this. Something eternal. Something befitting the love of two heartbroken ethereal beings.

“I appreciate it, I do,” she said, sniffling and wiping her nose on a sleeve. She wiggled a hand at him, beckoning him to help her off the floor. “But right now I need to go to church.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it feels like there's a lot missing here, but it will be covered in Crowley and Aziraphale's chapters. The reason it took so long is because these three chapters will overlap, so I was writing the others at the same time. So hopefully updates will be pretty quick!


	58. The Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanna begin by mentioning that, like a moron, I posted the last chapter during AO3's email maintenance, so if you're subscribed, you may not have been notified. So just make sure you've read that one before this one. Cheers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature!  
TW: heavy alcohol use and drug use, depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm. 
> 
> It's rough, I'm sorry! It will get better very soon, I promise!

Crowley was in a haze almost as soon as they left the airport. He later learned that it had only been two weeks that he’d been at Penny’s, but he was hardly cognizant of any of it. The dreary fog in his brain was muted slightly by shifting into his more primitive serpent form, but it wasn’t enough.

Some things made it through—Arvin, Penny’s boyfriend, stopping by and ogling Crowley’s snake form, Penny periodically walking by and bringing him tea or snacks (none of which he ever touched), the Telly spewing mindless noise, the grim silence of the night, broken only by the occasional traffic sound or house creak.

Those were the worst, the nights, and Crowley hadn’t managed to sleep even a wink. He tried. Oh, how he tried. First in snake form, then eventually, about a week on, when he finally mustered the dedication to concentrate hard enough on shifting back, in man-shaped form. He felt bereft and hollow, without the reassuring weight of Aziraphale next to him, the warmth, the soothing little hum the angel sometimes let out subconsciously when he was content. These things were Crowley’s lullaby, and although Penny tried desperately to be what he needed (sometimes sitting next to him with a hand on either his scales, or later, his shoulder. Sometimes just being present in the same room, and speaking softly to him. Once, she even slept on the couch next to him, and while the warmth and closeness were nice enough to rock him from his haze momentarily, they were a sad, pathetic stand-in for the otherworldly presence of Aziraphale. Aziraphale was like cuddling up to a supernova, embracing a livewire. He was massive, he was uncontained, he was pure starlight wrapped in Egyptian cotton. And Penny… Penny was just one small human), it wasn’t enough.

But he’d known this a long time ago, that he wasn’t really capable of sleeping anymore without Aziraphale next to him; it was why the angel had made him that blanket from his feathers in the first place.

That was what eventually spurred Crowley to rise from Penny’s couch for the first time in fifteen days, grab his jacket from the back of it, and stomp wordlessly out of her house despite her desperate protests and attempts to stop him.

He’d planned to go back to the bookshop, where he’d left the ruddy blanket, but just the thought of stepping foot in there, smelling that empty scent of pages and no angel, beholding that shimmer of dusty sunbeams with no _light_… it was physically painful—a tightening in his chest, just below his ribs, that felt like someone had gathered up all his arteries and begun _twisting._

So he drove for a while, fast and reckless, until the glaring presence of an empty passenger seat made him feel ill. With a growl, he pulled the Bentley over violently, not even caring that he slammed the door on his way out.

He had no idea where he stopped, and frankly, didn’t care. All he needed was the crowds, the bustling, the hordes of balanced souls, teetering precariously on the blade of sin.

He hadn’t been quite so vicious since… well, he didn’t think he’d ever _been_ quite so vicious. The moods of humans within a mile radius of him suddenly soured. People shouted at each other, cut each other off in traffic, stole from one another. Every traffic light in the same radius went red and _stayed red_. Cell phones died despite having 93% battery left, signals dropped out. Food spoiled in refrigerators, large appliances failed the day after their warranties expired. The internet went down in homes across whatever city he’d driven to, and cats vomited in shoes.

The only thing that paused his rampage was the falling of the sun, and the chill that swept over him.

His first thought, his first _desire_, burning with an agonizing intensity, was _bed, with my angel._ And when he immediately remembered that that wasn’t an option, he sped angrily back to Mayfair.

Luckily, he was able to talk himself out of shredding every single plant, but he wasn’t able to stop the verbal thrashing they got.

What came next was unavoidable, really. With the plants off limits, he destroyed… just about everything else. Entertainment center, telly, DVD player, speakers—all flipped and beaten to within an inch of their processing chips. Coffee table tossed, couch shredded with demonic claws, paintings torn from walls and snapped over his knee. Curtains were ripped down, CDs broken open and splayed about like some kind of haphazard mosaic, and pillows were gutted. And eventually, the responding copper was told to bugger off, with a miracle spared to make it stick.

It was only when Crowley found himself on his knees in his bathroom, water spraying everywhere past the mutilated nozzle and downed shower curtain, and a purposeful piece of shattered mirror in hand, that Aziraphale snapped him out of it.

“… _I won’t be there to stop you, and nothing… _nothing _will hurt me more than the knowledge that you’re suffering, and I can’t help you. Please, Crowley, please…”_

With a desperate wail, he dropped the glass, collapsing forward over his knees until his forehead contacted the cool tile. It felt good, the shock of it—refreshing in a kind of get-your-shit-together sort of way, and he found that he was able to inhale, hold it, and exhale.

_“Can you promise me this; that you will try three things, any three things first, before resorting to harm?”_

Crowley sighed, spreading both palms out onto the cool, wet tile and feeling the relief of it, letting it dull his simmering rage.

“Yeah, angel. I promised, didn’t I?” he said quietly, sparing a miracle to shut off the shower. He did not, however, clean anything else up. Reversing it meant opening it up to a repeat, he knew, and it was better this way. You can’t break something twice.

He laughed bitterly at that as he staggered into his kitchen and yanked a bottle of wine from the rack.

“Apparently you can only break an angel more than once,” he muttered, extending a single claw, burying it in the cork, and popping it open with little finesse.

“Distraction number one,” he told the ever-present but completely absent manifestation of Aziraphale. “Alcohol. I’m fairly certain drowning myself in the stuff wasn’t what you intended when you asked me to try three things, but hey-ho, _you’re not bloody here. _So…” he made a half-assed swoosh in the air with a hand, “check.”

He took a dizzying swig, absently aware that he dribbled a bit.

“Thing número dos…” he mumbled, staggering into the living room to find… anything else that he could have used as a distraction completely decimated.

“Bugger,” he grumbled. He supposed he could fix it all with a thought, but he was actually enjoying the maelstrom, the chaos—something was a mess here, other than just him.

Taking another gulping swig, he headed for the door of his flat, concentrating as best he was capable on the portal therein.

Opening the door to reveal the stair landing in the bookshop felt like Dorothy walking into bloody Oz. Except more depressing, and loads less colorful. If Crowley had ever been asked to sum up Aziraphale, his bookshop, his aesthetic in general in a single color, it would be beige. It was the color of his overcoat, the pages of his books, the sunbeams sneaking through the blinds, the color of his aura, _bright and warm and beckoning._

Walking down those stairs and knowing he would find nothing but an empty bookshop felt like walking into an M.C. Escher painting—disorienting, frightening, and vaguely threatening. It didn’t have that homey quality it always had, anymore. It looked the same, but it just… didn’t _feel right; _like it was the same building, but someone had moved all the walls, redecorated, and shifted all the furniture an inch to the left.

Steeling himself with another gulp of wine, Crowley finally descended the stairs and went for the couch, where he’d left his angel-blanket.

Touching it felt like a white-hot shock to the system. He hadn’t realized how starved he’d been of Aziraphale’s essence until he could feel it, weak but very real, smothering him in the form of a blanket woven from divine feathers. He gripped a handful and pressed it to his face, inhaling hard.

“Does this count?” he asked brokenly, noting that the thing smelled more like him than Aziraphale, but there were notes. “I’m gonna say yes.”

With that, he plopped down on the familiar couch, now feeling foreign and out-of-place on it, and snatched whatever book Aziraphale had been reading (or re-reading, likely) from the side table.

It was Victor Hugo’s _The Hunchback of Notre Dame,_ surprisingly. Surprising, because to Crowley’s knowledge, Aziraphale rather disliked that book. Perhaps not _disliked_, that was a strong word to use in the same sentence as _Aziraphale _and _books._ While the angel appreciated the general theme of judging by one’s heart, not what they are, he held a certain distaste for several elements portrayed within, namely the unresolved love story. That was one of Aziraphale’s biggest pet peeves in literature, and it was what made Romeo and Juliet one of his _least _favorite of Shakespeare’s works, despite popular opinion. He’d rambled on, one drunken evening years and years ago, about how he didn’t expect a happy ending, per se, that would be naïve, but he expected a hint, just the barest scrap of hope for forbidden lovers.

Looking back now, Crowley couldn’t believe he never saw the symbolism before. Daft demon, he was.

He was just about to toss the book aside when he took in a line and had to do a mental double-take, a reversal, to ensure he’d read it correctly.

_“Love is like a tree: it grows by itself, roots itself deeply in our being and continues to flourish over a heart in ruin. The inexplicable fact is that the blinder it is, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger than when it is completely unreasonable.”_

He whined, feeling that hole within him open its giant maw to swallow a bit more of him.

“Bloody tree needs to grow better, then,” he groused, actually throwing the book across the room.

_“Really, my dear?! Throwing a book? In _my _shop? I’ve never smited… smitten? you before, but don’t think I won’t!” _the voice of Aziraphale scolded Crowley in his mind, and for a slightly inebriated moment, he thought he could see the angel hovering by his desk, where the book had landed.

“I’d honestly welcome it, angel,” he said, polishing off the bottle he’d been working on and miracling up another from Aziraphale’s stores. “Might take my mind off things long enough to make me realize I’m bloody _talking to myself in an empty bookshop, cuddling up to a homemade blanket and getting white-girl-wasted like some… pathetic… excuse for a demon!”_

He paused, waiting for the Aziraphale-ghost-but-really-just-a-dusty-sunbeam to fade away into nothingness.

“And I was already smitten, for the fuckin’ record,” he mumbled down into the bottle of Merlot, pulling the blanket higher on his shoulders and settling into it.

***

Crowley was consumed by a fury he hadn’t felt in a very long time—6000 years, to be precise. He righted and destroyed his flat countless times, to the extent that it almost became routine. Let his rage build and build, fight to contain it as it slowly breached the walls, miracle everything righted, and then open the dam. Rinse and repeat.

He’d known it was only a matter of time before he broke his promise to Aziraphale, but frankly, he was shocked it took a year. Personal proclivities considered, he’d have thought it would be much, _much _sooner.

He was about halfway through a James Bond marathon on BBC America (having righted his entertainment center three different times now), and had been completely zoned out for at least two films.

He was staring into the plant room, eyes set in a daze, his fourth? Fifth? Eighth? glass of Pinot Grigio hanging limp and untouched in his hand. He’d allowed his mind to wander, as it had a tendency to do, back to Aziraphale.

He thought of the first World War, and their reunion. It had been an exhausting and contentious few years, mostly for Aziraphale. First had been the sinking of the Titanic, which had gone to the depths with precisely one angel on board. Then the conflicts flared in Europe, and Aziraphale had returned, albeit to a completely different area than Crowley. They both had their assignments, both had their respective blessings and temptations. Though, to be honest, temptations were much easier to come by in times of war. People had a tendency to lose hope, making Crowley’s job all the more simple.

Not that he enjoyed it, mind. He preferred those instances when humans saw the bedlam, the chaos, the scales weighed against them, and they stood tall and shouted into the void “no, fuck that.” Much more entertaining.

But war had a tendency to grind down on the angel until he was raw and exposed. Every way he turned, there were people losing hope, losing faith, losing life. And although the angel possessed an uncanny ability to swing things for the better... hopelessness and sadness got to him. He’d never let on, though. He usually put on that brave face; a charade that smiled on the surface, but beneath the glittering eyes, the rosy cheeks, it was shattering.

It was after; when it all came to a close, and the two of them reunited for a few very stiff drinks at the bookshop.

It was then that the true nature of the angel’s feelings surfaced, or at least came very close to exposure, however briefly. Like a creature rising from the depths, it crested, just for the tiniest of moments, when Crowley walked through the front door.

The angel leapt from his chair, rushing to the foyer and grasping Crowley by the arms.

_“Oh, how I missed you!” _he’d gasped, the facade falling away to reveal a very broken and desperate angel. Physically, he was as perfect and soft as ever, but... his eyes were in pain. They’d brought Crowley to a complete standstill—stopped breathing, moving, thinking.

They never said things like that. But there was such agony in those sapphire eyes that Crowley was helpless against their barrage.

_“Er, yeah. Me too, angel,”_ he’d replied, awkward and at a loss for how to respond.

And in a blink, the angel’s mask was back up, and he took a giant step back, away, yanking his hands back with him as if he’d touched hellfire. Crowley had subconsciously followed with one hand, seeking to explain—_you don’t have to pull away. If you need me to be close, I will. Heaven and Hell be damned. Let me... let me comfort you. I swear I can. I know I’m Fallen and flawed, but I can be here for you, I can..._

But Aziraphale had pulled away, flitting to the back to seek out a few glasses and sufficiently blabber on about some author he thought Crowley might like.

The sound of Connery’s gentleman spy letting off a single gunshot made Crowley startle from the memory, his fist closing so hard on his wine glass that it shattered, slicing into his palm and fingers and sending wine spilling down the armrest and onto the slate floor.

Growling, Crowley made to miracle away the mess and the injury, but paused as the pain lanced up his wrist and into his shoulder. The blood mingled with the wine in his hand, creating a weak pink shade that mimicked the high blush on a certain flustered angel’s cheeks. But what was more, the throbbing pain momentarily blotted out those images, those sounds, those stains on the back of his eyelids, angel-shaped and persistent.

Mesmerized, he leaned up slowly, closing his hand over the shards embedded in his palm, the very same palm Lucifer had marked when he surrendered Crowley to Penelope.

**You are mine. You can keep that, to remind you...**

With a vicious snarl, Crowley closed his fist as tight as he could, feeling the little pieces of glass as they embedded easily into muscle and bone, crunching wetly as they went. And for a few blissfully absent moments, all he could focus on was the pain. Lucifer was gone, Penny was gone, _Aziraphale was gone._

There was only the pulsing of his blood around the obstruction, spilling out over trembling fingers and dripping to the floor in a macabre mosaic of blood and wine.

_My dear, you promised... how could you?!_

Crowley’s head snapped up, peering at what he knew was just a hallucination, or perhaps a facet of Crowley’s own subconscious. But it was shocked like him, beautiful like him, saddened like him.

“N-no, I’m... I didn’t... I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to,” he stuttered, letting his hand go slack and feeling the shards of glass shift under the release of pressure. More blood spilled out, following the lines of his fingers like ravines.

_Crowley, I’m disappointed in you..._

He could have screamed at that, in fact he might have.

“No! See! Fixed! All better!” he cried, holding up his splayed-out hand to shake his miraculously healed flesh at the ghost, but it was gone.

“Nononono, come back. Look, I’ll be better! I’ll sober up, so it doesn’t happen again, I’ll do what you asked! Th-three things, that’s what you wanted, yes?! Three... any three things...”

He sobered up, cringing at the sudden loss, and rocketed to his feet.

“Plants... I’ll... I’ll water the plants. Does that count? I never know, you... you didn’t tell me...”

He stumbled into the plant room, grabbed the mister with a hand still tingling with ghost pains, and frantically misted the greenery.

“See? One down! Or... or did sobering up count? _Fuck.”_

He tossed the mister down on the floor and walked dejectedly around the flat, searching for the specter of Aziraphale.

“Where’d you go?! You can’t just show up to tell me off and then piss off when I try to make it better! I did! I did what you asked!”

His eyes caught on his keys, there in an overpriced decorative snake-coil bowl by the door.

He grabbed them, jangling them manically in the air to show the ghost.

“Trying something else!” he called, slamming the door and sauntering into the lift.

Penny was in the lobby when he exited, but he stomped past her and into the car park outside, on a mission to fix this.

_I’m disappointed in you..._

He gripped a handful of his hair, attempting to twist the words from his brain, but then... did this count as hurting himself? Should he start over?

_I’m disappointed in you._

He approached the Bentley, pacing before it and sizing it up. It sat, daring to be silent and perfect before the stereo kicked on and began blaring from within closed windows;

_“Love of my life, you've hurt me_

_You've broken my heart and now you leave me...”_

“Shut it, you bloody hunk of metal, you’re junk, you know that!” he screamed at it.

Vaguely, he was aware of Penny apologizing to someone else in the car park for Crowley’s theatrics.

“Think you know so much, don’t you?” he spat, glaring at the metal and seeing his own monstrous pupils glimmering in the reflection. For a brief moment, he felt Penny’s hand on his arm, some mumbled rubbish about needing to calm down.

He threw her off, pacing around to the passenger side...

And that was when the ghost of Aziraphale decided to show back up; sitting primly in the seat and wiggling with delight.

_“Well?”_ he asked. _“Are we going or not?”_

_“_You ruddy piece of shit, how _dare_ you!” he screeched, wishing up a giant sledgehammer, and swinging with all his might.

Penny’s yelp of surprise mingled with the collapsing metal to form a kind of scream of betrayal, and, as if trying to speak to him, the Bentley’s song changed.

_“Another one bites the dust..._

_Another one bites the dust...”_

But Crowley was already winding up for strike two, seeking silence, seeking peace. Everything just needed to _stop._

That was when he felt the familiar tingle of a command—a well and true command, coming from Penny.

“_Crowley! Drop it! Stop this!”_

His head began to throb with an instant headache, and his hand released the sledgehammer against his will, and it went clambering to the ground with a concrete echo.

“Fix this right now!” Penny demanded, and the headache ratcheted a bit higher, making his eyes feel like they were being pinched.

“Fuck!” he yelped, stumbling slightly as he waved a hand at the passenger side door, wishing it clean and mended; no sign that it had ever been imperfect.

The pressure immediately laid off as he did as she commanded, but the twinge of a headache remained.

Drained and unable to maintain himself anymore, he collapsed hard to his knees, relishing in the sting of them hitting hard pavement.

“M’sorry angel, _please don’t be disappointed, please...”_

The next thing he registered was lying in Penny’s dark guest bedroom, the window open and a box fan blowing cool evening air over the bed, her thighs beneath his head and her gentle fingers combing through his hair in a soothing rhythm. He didn’t think he’d blacked out... he’d sobered up, how does one black out when not inebriated? Could rage do that? He didn’t think he’d ever been so angry that he blacked out, but... first time for everything, he supposed.

“When... when did we come back here?” he asked, his voice sounding like it had been dragged a few miles behind a dump truck full of gravel.

Penny’s brows pulled together in worry, and she glanced up to where Arvin was hovering in the corner with a cup of tea and a wet washcloth.

“You... you don’t remember?” Penny asked, her hand migrating to his forehead, making him scoff. As if he could even _have _a fever.

“No,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and sighing. “Remember beating the everlasting shit out of my Bentley, though. I did fix that, right?”

“Yes, I...” Penny stopped, swallowing hard. “I forced you to. I’m sorry, Crowley, I know I said I’d never use that ability against you, but... you were out of control, and I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do...”

“S’fine, Penny, really,” he grumbled, rearranging in her lap with a groan. “I deserved it.”

Penny waved a hand toward Arvin, and he handed her the washcloth. She doted, lifting Crowley’s head and placing the cool cloth to his neck.

He couldn’t deny it did feel wonderful; like it was actually soothing away the fire that was still mingling in his veins. He couldn’t, however, permit doting. Not from her, anyway.

“Penny, you really don’t need to... I’m fine now,” he grumbled, beginning to sit up and yelping when Penny placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back down.

“No,” she said in the tone of one scolding a puppy who’s destroyed a Louboutin. “Stay. So... you don’t remember me telling you that you’re staying with me for a while, then?”

He blinked up at her. “No...”

“Well, it wasn’t a command, so I won’t force you. But... I, er... I’d feel better if you did. Just for a little while. So I can... erm...”

“Keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t do anything stupid?” he asked, daring to give her a charming smile.

“Well, if the shoe fits, Crowley,” she replied, returning a hand to stroke through his hair, against his scalp. And _damn,_ he couldn’t deny that either—it felt good. He hadn’t slept a single wink since Aziraphale left, not for more than a year, and even though he technically _couldn’t _feel fatigue... his mind was tired. _Exhausted_.

“What happened, Crowley?” Penny whispered, her voice breaking on his name. “You were distraught, and.. you were... saying something about Aziraphale being disappointed in you...”

For a moment, he felt guilty for worrying her, but quick on its heels was a certain simmering enmity—that if she hadn’t been meddling, none of this would have happened. He’d probably have fixed the Bentley on his own, and gone back up to his flat to sulk some more. Without causing more damage, to himself or his property. Probably.

He sighed, fighting off that thought and chastising himself for being so ungrateful, so heartless.

But then again, he was a demon. He was meant to be ungrateful and heartless.

_But if I don’t have a heart, why does it hurt so bad?_

“Hurt myself,” he mumbled, bringing his hand up to peer at the now-flawless skin of his palm. Well, flawless aside from the pentagram Lucifer had burned into it.

Without warning, Arvin leaned in and set the tea on the nightstand, and hurried from the room with a hushed “gunna give you two some privacy.”

Impressed, Crowley nodded to the lad in thanks. Typically, humans couldn’t pass up the opportunity for some good old fashioned dirty laundry.

“Didn’t mean to,” he continued after the pause, bringing his other hand up to poke at his palm with his fingers. “Just kinda... _happened,_ and I... I hadn’t done any of the things to quell it, before, that he’d asked me to do. I guess I wasn’t... didn’t... really think clearly, b’cuz it was an accident, but... I thought he’d be mad at me, I saw—”

He cut himself off abruptly, knowing that admitting to hallucinating was unwise if he didn’t want her worrying more. Not to mention, she’d probably tell Aziraphale when she spoke to him, and... oh, that was unthinkable. Aziraphale would worry, worry, _worry_ his angelic little head off, and it would be all Crowley’s fault. No, he couldn’t have that.

Clearing his throat, he went on, with only a slight bit of omitted information.

“I jussst... got really angry, is all. At myself. And er... took it out in very unhealthy ways. S’what I do, Penny.”

She answered with a disappointed hum, but didn’t comment. Instead, she reached down over his body, pulling up his angel blanket over him.

_I left that at my place, did... did I go and get it? Did she? Bollocks, did she see all the blood on the floor? Fuck._

“You look tired, Crowley,” she said softly, continuing to brush her fingers against his scalp in a way that was angelically familiar, and relaxing as Hell... or whatever relaxing things are compared to.

“Am tired,” he said, closing his eyes and gripping a hand into a fistful of blanket. As usual, Aziraphale’s essence flooded him, and he was suddenly surrounded by warmth and light and the scent of old pages. His breath caught in his throat, and he might have made a small, pathetic sound.

“Rest, Crowley,” Penny whispered, settling in against the headboard, and he couldn’t help but obey.

***

After that first night at Penny’s, during which time he slept for nearly 42 hours straight, Crowley didn’t sleep again.

He wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. Part of him had seriously considered attempting to sleep through the entire trial. An eleven year nap didn’t sound half bad, after the stress of the apocal-oops, and then Crowley’s fight to escape the clutches of Hell, his struggle through an exorcism, and Aziraphale’s trials. He was honestly shocked that all of that had fit into the span of a few years. So what was a few more, spent absent from the world?

But he couldn’t make himself shut down—physically or mentally. He’d toss and turn, mind shuffling through images and thoughts like a kaleidoscope, and nearly all of them focused on Aziraphale. Worrying about him, reminiscing on memories of him, and most of all, cherishing the leaps they’d taken more recently. The feeling of those soft, precise fingertips working through his delicate feathers, the sensation of those plush lips questing _so gently_ against his own. The scent of his skin pressed so close as they lay together in bed. The glitter of his eyes like starlight. The private, _intimate _timber of his voice when he spoke to Crowley.

It seemed his outburst with the Bentley was a bit of a wake-up call. He still found himself getting angry easily, mostly at the Heavens and the angels that had done this, but he managed to cage it, stifle it, only let it out in small, concentrated bursts that he kept far away from Penny (and the Bentley).

Whose door was currently locked to him for the first time in its history.

“I know, look, I know what I did, and you’ve every right to lock me out, but just... let me make it up to you...” he groaned, trying the door again.

No dice.

The vintage car was sitting on the street outside Penny’s place, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather, its black metal giving off an impressive radius of heat.

Crowley sighed, giving up on the door, floundering near the hood, and collapsing to his bum on the curb. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“I know. I know there’s no making it up to you,” he grumbled, gripping handfuls of his hair at the temples and staring down at the heated concrete below his snakeskin boots.1

“Look, I know, I know that I get violent sometimes, and I tell myself that it’s alright because it’s only ever objects that I take it out on...”

He swore he heard an offended gasp.

“I know, I know,” he hurried to add, throwing his hands up, placating. “You’re not an object. You’re an extension of... of _me._ That was my mistake. I just... 6000 bloody years of Hell, of knowing nothing but torment, and viciousness, and poor coping skills... and don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to suggest that it excuses my behavior, I’m not. I’m just... I just...”

Feeling half emotionally fraught and half mortally embarrassed because he was pouring his heart out to a _car_, Crowley buried his face in his hands and groaned again.

“I’m sorry. My experiences don’t excuse what I’ve done. And if I’m going to move on, move _forward, _with him, with you... then I can’t be dragging little bits and pieces of the past along with me, letting the old wallpaper show through. I can’t let all of that anywhere near him, near _me._ It’s over now, and I have to come to terms with it, no matter the struggle. He deserves a different demon, a better one. One that doesn’t have fits like some rampaging toddler kicking through LEGO cities just because he didn’t get chicken nuggets for breakfast.”

He sighed again, finally looking up at the looming grill of the gleaming Bentley. For a moment, he couldn’t discern if his mind was playing tricks, or if the Bentley had ascended to a level of sentience that it was now making skeptical facial expressions with its lamps.

“I know this is small consolation, and if you want to lock me out forever, that’s fine. Serve me right, having to cruise around in a bloody shite-brown Pinto, b’cuz I couldn’t show you the respect you deserved and, quite frankly, _earned. _But please understand that I’m trying. He’s made an effort to change his habits, so I must too. But... I can’t break those habits overnight, they’ve been ground into my bones and shackled there. But _I am trying._ So please try to believe me when I say it will _never_ happen again. Lashing out like that, turning on my old ways, getting... _proper demonic..._ that’s the first thing that’s gotta go. And I’m going to work very hard on it. But without him, I... I need the things I’ve got, I need familiarity, and you’re... second only to him. So... you don’t have to forgive me. But... can I please try to make it up to you?”

There was a long moment of London quiet; the kind that is somehow noisy and silent all at once. The kind that buzzed with the low level hum of traffic noise and feet on pavement, generic chatter, and construction. The hiss of bus brakes, and the distant singing of hardened, city-dwelling birds.

And then there was the distinct sound of a lock clicking open in a classic car.

Crowley bolted to his feet, smiling wider than he thought he had since before Aziraphale left.

“You won’t regret this, old bird!” he quipped, boundlessly chipper as he yanked the door open and plopped in, suddenly appreciating that scent of old but well-oiled leather, the groan of well-used springs, the heat of a car in the sun.

He wasn’t sure of his plan as he drove out of London, wasn’t sure he’d even had one to begin with. But driving with the window down, enjoying that cacophonous petrol-and-hot-pavement smell of a big city, and later the crisp countryside just felt good, felt _right._ Easing that beast of a machine around long, winding roads and tight, twisting corners awakened something in Crowley’s chest that made his wings flex and his feathers twitch, in whatever nominal space between realities they were currently tucked into. It was freeing, and relaxing, and caressed against the ghost of memories that were currently dangling between grief and nostalgia like a clock pendulum.

But it wasn’t depressing, somehow, it simply... _was._

He drove for hours, twisting and exploring in a very backtracking and serpentine way. He was sure he crossed his own path a number of times, but it didn’t matter. He had an endless tank of petrol and a determination that rivaled it.

Which was why it shocked him to his core when he pulled to a slightly delirious stop in front of Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield.

“Well...” he said with a sigh. “In for a penny, as they say...”

He inhaled hard as he pulled open the ornate little iron gate and traversed the beautifully lush and cared-for garden path leading to the door.

“Spoiled country plants,” he mumbled, lightly cupping a radiant bloom of bluebells near the stoop. “Witchcraft, likely.”

He paused with his hand raised to knock. _What in bloody Hell, Heaven, and Earth am I doing? She doesn’t want to see me, of all people. Er... entities. I hit her with my car, accidentally stole her book. I’m a demon, for somebody’s sake, what human actually _wants _to be dropped in on by a bloody demon..._

Before he could knock, the door swung open frantically, and beyond it stood the ever-beautiful and ever-quick Anathema Device. He hadn’t seen her since the airbase, as Aziraphale was the only one to come out here (to learn from Anathema how to crochet Crowley’s blanket, if memory served), but she hadn’t changed much in those few years. Her eyes were still inquisitive and sharp as ever, her posture slightly guarded. She wore a lovely flowing gauze sundress, and donned her usual glasses and ridiculous amount of rings.

“Agnes tell you I was coming?” he asked nervously, lowering his hand from where it had been prepared to knock.

“No,” she replied quickly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. Her gaze was intense and almost intrusive as it followed his entire silhouette. “I’m as blind about the future now as any old human. The porch creaks.”

“Ah,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and clamming up; worry beginning to turn his muscles to stone. He could practically feel the anxiety coming off of her in waves, confirming his suspicion that she didn’t want him there.

“Who’s at the door?!” a voice called from within, likely the bloke who’d been with her that day at the airbase.

She didn’t answer, instead narrowing her eyes more and titling her head like a curious puppy.

“What’s going on with your aura?” she asked curiously, her eyes continuing to survey his edges.

He looked down, dumbly, as if he could see it.

“Dunno what you mean?” he asked, holding up his arms and looking around as if checking for bugs. “Can’t see it myself, can I?”

Before she could answer, the lad from the airbase appeared in the foyer, Newt had been his name, but he skidded to a halt just behind Anathema and breathed out a very worried “_oh shit.”_

He approached, but stayed well hidden behind Anathema as he whispered, quite audibly, “that’s the demon, yeah?”

“... sort of...” Anathema replied belatedly, and before Crowley could inquire as to what on Earth she meant by that, she raised a hand, pointed at Crowley’s, and then snapped impatiently when he didn’t provide it.

With a growing confusion rising up to mingle with the dread in a kind of anxious Piña Colada, he raised his right hand and placed it in hers.

She hurriedly turned it over, her pointer and middle finger beginning to gently trace the lines of his palm. He tried his best to stave off the shudder, but wasn’t entirely successful, as flashes of Aziraphale absently caressing his hand as he held it played games with Crowley’s nerves.

“You know, I wasn’t _born,_ so any lines on my corporation aren’t going to mean a damn thi-” he began, a little testily.

“Palm indentations are different from fingerprints, they’re formed from experience, not made in the womb. So you’ll have them like anyone else. Now hush,” Anathema quipped even more testily.

Crowley was actually taken aback by her courage, snapping at a demon like that, and he pursed his lips, looking to Newt. For his part, he was pulling off the equal-parts-shocked-and-impressed look quite well.

“Grief,” she whispered, following a single, deep crease diagonally across his palm. “Grief and pain.”

She paused to finally look up at him, and her brows were pinched tightly together in worry.

“What happened?!” she snapped, dropping Crowley’s hand suddenly and leaning to peer past him at the Bentley. “Where is he?! Did something happen to him?!”

She was growing increasingly shrill and frantic, and Crowley hurried to interrupt her.

“No no no no, nothing happened. I mean, well, _something_ happened, but nothing bad. I mean... it, ngk, it _is bad_, but nothing _permanent._ I don’t... I don’t think...”

Anathema’s worry quickly morphed into amusement as he rambled, and she softened dramatically.

“Why don’t you come inside, Crowley? Fancy a cuppa or some tea?” she asked, pushing the door open further and removing herself from the entryway so she could beckon him in. Newt, like an exceptionally long piece of Velcro, followed her.

He found himself quickly seated at a quaint little nook table, watching as Anathema concocted a very complicated espresso drink from a machine that highly contradicted the kitchen’s vintage theme.

“Didn’t know you remembered my name,” he said quietly, eyeing Newt as he stood awkwardly on the other side of the kitchen, clearly warring with himself over the presence of a demon in their kitchen. Abstractly, Crowley saw the absurdity—‘witch, in the kitchen, with the demon.’

“Of course I do,” Anathema replied, stirring the beverage with a metal straw, and placing it on a coaster in front of Crowley. “Aziraphale hardly stopped saying it when he was here... gosh, what was that, now, Newt? A year ago?”

Before Newt could answer her, Crowley habitually cut in.

“Two and a half, at least. Christmas, or just before, rather.”

Anathema took on a distant expression, seating herself opposite Crowley at the table. Newt stayed where he was, like a watchdog at the corner of a yard.

“Was it really that long ago?! Feels like yesterday...”

She rested her hands on the tabletop, and Crowley caught the glint of gold.

“Married, then?” he asked with a grin, raising the cup to his lips and sipping at the, quite frankly, phenomenally flavored drink—the mild bitterness of blond coffee, and the sweetness of toffee, topped with dark chocolate shavings. Aziraphale would go completely bananas, Crowley noted with a hint of sadness that made his grin fade.

“Not really a fan of the marriage industrial complex, me, but mutual partners, yes,” Anathema said, pivoting in her chair to hold out a beckoning hand to Newt. He looked first at her hand, then at Crowley, as one eyes a light switch burdened by nearby cobwebs.

“Oh, come now, he doesn’t bite,” Anathema taunted, waving her hand impatiently.

“Not humans, anyway,” Crowley said, sipping his drink again, coy. “Too gamey.”

Newt looked horrified for a split second, before obviously realizing it had been a joke, and he scoffed at himself as he joined Anathema, standing behind her and rubbing her shoulders.

“Well then...” Anathema began, her tone souring. “Tell me what happened.”

Crowley very suddenly felt slightly ill, and had to put his coffee down on the saucer before speaking.

“I don’t... I don’t even know where to start,” he said, unable to meet the woman’s eyes and instead staring down at the settling ripples in his drink. “Did Aziraphale tell you about... the whole... _deal _with me and Hell?”

She nodded.

“Well... Heaven showed back up, and... and they decided that, in order to confirm that Aziraphale was still _loyal, _or whatever, they were going to put him through a series of... _cruel tests_.” He growled those words, and Newt visibly tensed. Crowley made an effort to calm down before he continued rather flatly, “Seven to be exact, one for every _Heavenly bloody virtue._ They... _they were ruthless._ But then again, I knew that. Intimately.”

He paused to take a breath, to center himself, and picked absently at his coffee cup’s design, which read, in looping, intricate script, _Espresso Kadabra,_ with a little wand at the end.

“They took everything from him. Books. Food, drink, his _fucking wings...”_

“They took his wings?!” Anathema shrieked, her hand tightening so hard on Newt’s where it was resting in hers on her shoulder that he yelped.

“They gave them back,” Crowley replied bitterly. “After a year. A very, very long year. I’ve never... never seen him so... _so desolate._ He was... I don’t... I don’t think he’s the same, after that. That one hurt him. And then...”

He shifted, feeling his throat beginning to close up. “Then the last one hit, and they... they took him away from me, and I can’t... I don’t know how to... _I’m trying, I really am, but... fuck, I miss him so much. I love him, and it’s like they just cleaved me open, again, and left me here, with this gaping wound, and I’m just this... hollow shell, and shit just keeps escaping, and I don’t know what I’ll be when I get him back, will it even be something he still wants, and...”_

His words descended quickly into sobs, and he curled in on himself with shame, shaking viciously from the raw emotion. Vaguely, he was aware of Anathema, now kneeling next to his chair and pulling him against her, holding him so tightly he wouldn’t have been able to breathe if he were human.

She didn’t speak, didn’t try to talk him down. She just held him until slowly, the sobs began to dim, and Crowley found that he was able to breathe again, able to think.

And the first thing he thought was, _fuck, how pathetic!_ _This poor girl hasn’t seen you since the airbase, where the end of the world didn’t happen, and you show up at her house and dissolve into this pitiful mess of a demon, blabbering about love and crying all over her nice sundress! Really impressive, Crowley. Fucking spectacular._

“I’m sorry, I don’t... I don’t even know why I’m here, shit, I... I’m just gunna go...” he mumbled, pulling away from Anathema and making to rise from the nook table.

“No! No. Sit down,” Anathema demanded, placing both hands on Crowley’s shoulders and practically shoving him back down. “You’re not storming out just because your mortal enemy, emotional vulnerability made an appearance. It’s fine, alright. Finish your coffee. Relax. We had nothing on for the rest of the afternoon anyway, right Newt?”

“Er, nyehhh...”

“See? Nothing on. Stay,” Anathema finished firmly but warmly.

Her confident, almost demanding demeanor reminded Crowley very much of Penny. He settled, swallowing the remaining anxiety, and nodded, wiping his face of any residual tears.

Anathema simply beamed, rising to her feet and hurrying to a cupboard. “I have some biscuits here, would you like some? They’re almond butter.”

Crowley didn’t have the heart to decline, even though his stomach was feeling a little rebellious, post-breakdown.

It was actually alright, though, because no sooner had she set them on the table before him, a dog was yapping and scratching at the door.

“Anathema!” came a small, excited voice. “I’m here! Open up!”

Anathema brightened even more. “Oh, that’ll be Adam. D-d’you mind?”

Crowley shook his head, and shrugged. “Not at all. Been curious what the little bugger’s been up to,” he said, sipping his coffee once more. It had cooled a bit past his liking, and he fixed it up with a snap (which Newt eyed suspiciously).

Crowley’s lower half was then bombarded by a tidal wave of fur and claws, barking and panting. The little dog nearly attempted to leap into his lap, and were it not for a stern demonic hand to the chest, probably would have made it.

“Look at you,” he mused fondly. “Gone about as native as I have, haven’t you?”

Dog barked in affirmation, standing up on his hind legs and leaning onto Crowley’s knee, his eyes roving over to the table, where the biscuits sat open, likely wafting the most tempting of odors down to him.

“Ah. And just like me, you see what you want, and you won’t settle until you’ve got it,” he said, biting a biscuit in half, and nonchalantly tossing the other half to the waiting jaws of a very excited former hellhound.

“Dad says he has to do something for his treats,” came a voice from the foyer, and Crowley turned to face it cautiously.

Now likely thirteen or fourteen, Adam was a ghost of his former self. He had skyrocketed in height, nearly as tall as Anathema now, and he was certainly going to be a handsome young man. He was lean and skinny, like most overly active teenage boys, and had an unruly and plush mop of curls atop his head. Spattering his nose and cheeks were subtle little freckles, and his eyes were just as knife-sharp and wicked as they’d ever been. But in the way all slightly mischievous boys are—in his expression, there was a kind sort of lilt, the sort one only sees in well-traveled, wise elders.

“H-hello, Adam,” Crowley greeted, his walls rising back up as he tentatively offered his hand. “I swear I’m not here to stir up trouble. In fact, I... I don’t really know why I’m here.”

Adam took it fearlessly, his grip strong and powerful as he shook Crowley’s hand.

“I know. Dog here can smell trouble coming. He would have alerted me,” Adam said, strolling across the kitchen to plop into what had been Anathema’s chair, and grabbing a small handful of biscuits.

“Well, he _would_ know,” Crowley said, watching as Newt retrieved a tennis ball from a drawer and threw it into the sitting room. Dog ran enthusiastically after it, pouncing on it with incredible drama.

“Where’s the angel?” Adam asked, spraying a few pieces of biscuit crumbles and giggling as he did.

Crowley sighed. “Italy. Vatican City. For the next ten years.”

Saying it was physically painful—a weight on Crowley’s ribs that sank into his chest and threatened to pull him down too.

Anathema’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, a reassuring weight to counter the one in his heart.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I know you two were friends, I could tell. Don’t know what I’d do without Brian and Pepper and Wensleydale. Suppose it’ll happen one day. School, and stuff. Although I don’t really see Pepper going in for that ‘for profit’ University bullshit...”

Crowley expected Anathema to scold him for his language, but instead she simply mumbled “good for her,” and Crowley couldn’t help but smile.

“Maybe she’ll do some traveling. Green Peace, or something like that. She’s really into whales, ‘specially those black and white ones...”

“Orcas,” Newt supplied from the sitting room, where he was now expected to be a ball-throwing machine.

“Orcas, yeah, those ones,” Adam replied, his nearly breathless stream of chatter making Crowley feel more at home than he’d been... well, since Aziraphale left.

“Reckon she’ll go on some kind of expedition to see the wild ones. But I know she also wants to go and vandalize the sea parks, the ones with the performing whales. Even has a collection of spray paints ready for the job.”

“Well when she does, tell her to give me a call,” Crowley butted in with a mischievous grin. “I’d be happy to provide her with the resources she needs for a job badly done.”

“Same,” Anathema chimed in. “I’ll go with her.”

“Oh, that’s kind of you both, thanks!” Adam replied, as if they’d offered to drive him to the airport. “But that won’t be for years and years, I expect, not until Pepper can travel on her own. Her mum’s progressive, but maybe not _that _progressive.”

“And what do you have planned, Adam?” Newt asked from the sitting room.

Adam shrugged noncommittally, taking a few more biscuits.

“Dunno. Don’t fancy leaving Tadfield. I have gotten really into astronomy lately, though. Did you know that our sun will eventually turn into something called a red giant, and completely vaporize the Earth? Wicked stuff,” Adam said.

Considering he’d likely be there to see it happen, Crowley didn’t find it all that ‘wicked.’

“And to do stargazing, apparently rural areas are actually better. None of that... what d’you call it? Light trash?”

Anathema giggled. “Light pollution.”

“Yeah, that. S’where all the city lights make it impossible to see the stars. So I s’pose I could do that. Stargaze out here, and write books on it and stuff. Plus it would leave my days free, so I could do whatever I want. Brian’s really into this thing called Urban Exploring, but I reckon it’s just his excuse to break into places. He went through the old abandoned Foxglove cottage last month, but he got caught by Mrs. Hadish. But there’s not much to explore, as far as abandoned buildings go, here in Tadfield. That could be cool. Go explore a bunch of places with Brian, and when I’m done, come back here and stargaze. Not sure how he’d make a living out of it, though...”

“Bring a camera,” suggested Crowley. “Bet there are loads of people who would love to see that stuff.”

“But if you film yourself doing it, can’t the coppers just come and arrest you?”

“Not necessarily,” Anathema replied, thinking. “Trespass to land is only a civil tort, so punishment would have to be between you and whoever owns the building, and most abandoned places don’t have one. Or if they do, they obviously don’t care about the place enough to upkeep it, so I doubt they’d prosecute you unless you did something serious inside, like major vandalism. That, and you could always claim it was fake, green-screened or something. They really have to catch you in the act for charges to stick...”

Anathema realized that everyone was staring at her, their faces all residing on a scale from impressed to mortified.2

“Not that I’m condoning trespass, though, Adam. Definitely... definitely not. So... erm, what are Wensleydale’s plans, then?”

_Nice save_, Crowley mouthed at her.

“Accountancy. Duh,” Adam said, shoving the biscuits toward Crowley. “Take these away from me.”

Crowley put on his best ear-to-ear grin, and he was fairly certain he could see Newt cower a little.

“You’ve just asked _a demon_ to remove a temptation. _No,”_ he said mischievously, shoving the box back over.

Adam laughed, taking another biscuit. “Right. Dunno what I was thinking. So you two are together, right? I mean, obviously not physically, he’s in Italy right now. But... _you know. Together, _together.”

Crowley went pale so quickly he could actually trace the journey of his blood as it vacated his face.

“Er, it’sss, kind of, d’you mean... ngk,” Crowley stammered, and when he heard Anathema giggling, he placed a hand beneath the table, where Adam couldn’t see it, and kindly flipped her a rude gesture.

“You know, like Newt and Anathema are. I always hoped that’s what happened. Happy ending and all that. Reminded me of this movie Brian showed me, The Princess Bride—two people who, on the surface, look totally different, but on the inside, really not that different. See, Westley, he’s this rogue-ish scoundrel type, wears all black, but deep down he’s really kind...”

“M’_not_” Crowley began to argue.

“You are though,” Adam interrupted in such a matter-of-fact tone, it was as if he was doing simple sums. “And Buttercup’s this stuffy rich girl who looks spoiled but is actually really tough and brave. And they fall in love. The action is way cooler than the silly love story, but... m’really glad they ended up together. I always told myself that was what happened. I don’t think my honing of my powers was all that great, yet, but _that_ I could see. There was this... this line. Like Anathema said, ley lines. But it wasn’t between places, it was between you and Az... Azra... whassis name...”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked, his voice failing him.

“Yeah, him. And I could tell that not even I could break it. So r’you together?” Adam finished.

Shell shocked, Crowley merely made a few more incoherent noises.

“Have you kissed?” Adam asked simply, making it sound like the easiest thing in the world.

Abruptly, all of the blood that had left Crowley’s face returned with a vengeance to his cheeks.

“Erm... _yeah,” _he mumbled. From the corner of his vision, he saw Newt pull a note from his wallet and hand it to Anathema, who snatched it victoriously. This time Crowley didn’t bother to hide the rude gesture under the table.

“You’re together,” Adam confirmed with finality, rising from his seat and walking to the kitchen counter where a pile of magazines resided behind Anathema. “Anyway, I came to see if you got the new issue of the New Aquarian, and to see if you could help me subscribe to it m’self.”

“You’d need a credit card, Adam...” Newt spoke up, faking out Dog with an exaggerated throw and tossing the tennis ball into the couch cushions.

“Got one,” Adam replied, brandishing a shining silver card from his pocket. “Nicked it from dad.”

“Good lad,” Crowley whispered, and Adam actually winked at him.

Upon the scolding glare from Anathema, Adam sighed, defeated. “No, I didn’t nick it. I asked. I’m gunna pay him back from my lawn mowing wages. Promise.”

Crowley rose from the table, bringing the now-empty cup and saucer and placing them gently in the sink.

“I’m gunna head back to London. Got my own witch worrying about me,” he said, turning to face Anathema.

“Yeah, I’d like to meet her sometime,” Anathema said with a smile. “Compare spells and hexes. Are you sure you have to go? We didn’t get to talk very much, you sure you won’t stay for supper? We’re making Chicken Marsala, my nan’s recipe.

Crowley peered at Newt, who looked like she’d just invited a giant tarantula to join them.

“Nah, I think poor Newt is at his demon-tolerating threshold.”

To his credit, Newt tried to look like he disagreed.

“S’fine. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. People hear ‘demon,’ they think ‘The Exorcist.’ Don’t think I’ve ever done anything so malicious, but... no way to prove it, I suppose,” he said, holding out a hand to shake Anathema’s.

She shoved it aside and threw her arms around him, squeezing in a very Aziraphale-like manner.

“You didn’t get to stay very long...” she said woefully as she pulled back.

“S’alright. I got what I needed,” he said with a hopeful smile.

She grinned, her eyes going distant and roving over his edges once more.

“I can tell,” she said, her eyes becoming teary. “I’m glad we could help.”

1feet.

2Newt was mortified.

***

Slowly, he found he was able to return to a semblance of normalcy, living alongside Penny in her home. She had allowed him to do whatever he wanted to the room to make himself comfortable there, but all he ended up doing was replacing the curtains with something heavier for solid darkness, and keeping his angel blanket there.

It went unspoken that the reason for his lack of nesting was because he only needed one thing to be at home.

But he took comfort in knowing there was someone there, beyond the door, someone he could turn to when he thrashed from the bed at 2am, frustrated and lonely.

It was easier than he’d thought it would be to weave his way into her life, and her to do the same. He didn’t always, but sometimes he would emerge from the guest room and join her (and sometimes Arvin) for supper, a movie, or breakfast. It was calm, and repetitive, and blissfully domestic, playing human with them. He laughed, for what felt like the first time in years, listening to the two of them tell stories and be playful with each other.

He started to catalogue the pair, in a sort of subtle, researching way. He started making mental notes of the small things, their unique, personal love languages. Things he might do for Aziraphale, when they were together again.

He amassed so much that his brain no longer sufficed to hold them all, not accurately anyway, so he picked up a moleskin journal from a nearby drug store and began taking notes. If Penny noticed, she never commented. Perhaps she thought he’d taken up poetry, or worse, a diary. The horror.

He notated something almost every time they interacted, scribbling down every tiny intimate detail. _Small kiss on the temple as he says good morning. Hand on her lower back as he passes behind her, so he doesn’t startle her. Gentle squeeze to the back of his neck as she thanks him for fixing that loose baseboard. The way she watches his lips as he speaks. The way he moves her hair so he can see her more clearly. The way she holds a hand out but pauses, waits for his, waits to be permitted to see his emotions, see _him_._

Crowley was shocked at the quantity of ways humans showed compassion and care toward one another. Of course, he’d seen it plenty, been shocked by their resilience and positivity for over 6000 years, but he’d never been this _close._

_The way she makes room for him, even before he’s moved in. It’s inevitable, really. She empties a coat or two from the rack so he has somewhere to put his when he visits. She buys him things like coasters and mugs, things that will stay here, but belong to him._

_He spoils her equally. They have their separate lives, of course, and as a paralegal, he is very busy. But he makes space for her too, inviting her to quick lunches while he works, or drives her to her internship in the morning and picks her up at night, even though he gets off work an hour before her. He waits for her._

_They take interest in each other’s lives. She’s invested in every case he handles, and he passionately asks after her work shadowing a renowned child psychologist._

_And even in their disagreements, they fight with love. They refrain from accusations, and instead opt for sentences that began with “I.” I feel, I think, I dislike. After millennia of “you’re a failure, Crawly, you’ve got no spine,” it was rather refreshing, to say the least._

Crowley found that studying them was therapeutic, in a way, and he developed a tiny, weak, but budding optimism. He found that planning out all of the ways he would flood Aziraphale with affection made him an odd kind of giddy.

“D’you think you’ll marry him?” he asked offhandedly as he sat sideways in Penny’s recliner and sipped on a Riesling while watching her fold laundry. Arvin was in Swansea for the week, and it was actually kind of nice to just hang around Penny again.

She went pale. “Why do you ask?”

He grinned mischievously. _So, not ready yet. Noted._

“No reason, don’t panic or anything. Arvin’s a smart guy, I know he wouldn’t pop that on you unless you were both good and sure. But, you know, hypothetically. Would you say yes?” He asked, sipping on his wine, all the while knowing he was being deliberately intrusive and relishing the feeling.

She paused her folding to think, reaching habitually for her own wine.

“Dunno,” she said thoughtfully, wadding up a fitted sheet into something vaguely square-shaped and plopping it into the empty hamper. “I mean... maybe? I don’t think either of us are really... prepared for something like that yet. Not that having jobs is a hindrance, it’s not like I was ever really gung-ho on having children, not anytime soon anyway, so really... we’d just be carrying on, but with a bit more jewelry. I just think we’re too ambitious to really give marriage the dedication that it would require...”

“Does it though?” he quipped curiously. “Take dedication, I mean? Seems to me you two are perfectly good at managing your time and expectations. And like you said, without a plan for children, you’d just be doing the same old things, but with bling.”

Penny giggled. “I suppose. And he’s very charming. And fucking _Hell _in the sack.”

Crowley nearly snorted wine out his nose.

“Gunna need you to pick a different comparison, now I’m just seeing him nailing you to the wall and flogging you...”

Halfway through, he realized the euphemism.

“Oh, shut it, I heard m’self. You know what I mean. You do not want Hell _anywhere near _your bedroom.”

“Oh, I dunno,” she quipped sarcastically, wiggling an eyebrow at him. “I enjoyed it the few times that I did.”

His grin widened, eyes narrowing with mischief. “Suppose he should really even out the score... he goes in for that sort of thing, can I borrow him?”

Feigning offense, Penny threw a sock at him, which he deflected easily.

“I did mention it once, jokingly. _He actually thought about it...” _Penny whispered conspiratorially.

_“Did he really?!” _Crowley asked, straightening up as he laughed along with her. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Does he miss it, being with men?”

He’d certainly had his fair share of genders, but definitely never monogamously. True, there were a few phenomenal shags over the years that he came back to for romp number two, but he’d never swore any off entirely. Genuinely curious, he sipped at his wine as he stared inquisitively at Penny.

“I think I’ve got it covered...”

The playful and dark tone to her voice hit all of Crowley’s favorite demonic buttons, and he growled out a low laugh. “Got a nice strap, do you? I had a hand in those, you know. Er, so to speak...”

Turning a delightful shade of red, Penny threw another sock at him. This one he wasn’t fast enough for, damned Riesling, and it hit him squarely in the chest.

“What about you, then?” Penny asked as she turned back to her folding.

“What _about _me?” asked Crowley, confused.

“Marriage. Ever thought about it?”

Crowley nearly snorted wine out his nose. “Pppft, no, bloody absurd, why would I... marriage? Human concept, that, and... no, not even a human concept, but a cultural one! I’m a demon, why would I... even...”

He trailed off as Penny stopped what she was doing to stare at him, her lips quirking up at the corners and her brows drawing in in a way that was maddeningly knowing.

“What?!” he spat. “Don’t give me that look, I know that look. Typically preceded by ‘get up there and make some trouble’.”

Penny pursed her lips, turning back to her laundry but with a smug air about her.

“You’ve thought about it,” she declared, and before he could argue, “maybe not in the applicable sense, but in the... obscure, oh-that-might-be-interesting one. The way I think about becoming an astronaut. You thought about exchanging rings or vows or both, waking up next to the same person every morning, drinking coffee or tea together, asking ‘how was your day’ at the end...”

Crowley began to feel like he was sinking through the floor. His head swam, and his throat closed up. His mind wandered to a tight, cramped little kitchen in a cottage, where he stood, putting the kettle on and watching the angel read some book or other at a little nook table, the sunlight pouring in the window and creating a halo about him that rivaled his real one.

Suddenly, and very viciously, he felt he might cry.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry, bloody insensitive, are you alright?” Penny blurted, dropping whatever she’d been folding and hurrying to kneel in front of the chair, taking his unburdened hand in hers. She inhaled hard as she was dosed with the grief and longing he was feeling.

“Course I’ve thought about it,” he mumbled, staring down at their joined hands so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “But things like that aren’t meant for me, for us. Angel, demon... square peg and a round hole. Opposing magnets. Bases and acids. Even if we did want something like that... doubt God would approve. And I may not give two fucks about what She thinks of me anymore, but... I have to consider... what that would mean, for... _for him...”_

His throat finally failed him, and he yanked his hand away from her to bury his face in it. He fell back on an old defense mechanism, one that was so ingrained it was pretty much coiled and ready to strike on a hairpin trigger.

“Not really my scene, anyway,” he mumbled dismissively into his palm as Penny cooed another apology. “The pomp of it, the monetization, the unrealistic expectations, not to mention the ruddy religious undertones... no, not for me, all that. Might have had a hand in making it that way, but... s’too much... dunno, s’just all... _too much.”_

He’d found that ranting about the capitalist marriage institution helped him to hone his anxiety elsewhere, and he was able to calm—dropping his hand from his face and taking a long swig of wine.

Penny patted his knee once more in apology, and stood to return to her laundry.

“Well, sure, the ceremony itself might not be up your demonic alley, but... what marriage _is,_ what it was initially _supposed to be_, or represent, or what have you, before some bloody _demon_ mucked it up...”

Crowley gave her a Cheshire grin, and winked.

“The dedication, the intuition, the loyalty, the knowledge, the _love...”_

Crowley hissed at the word, mostly out of obligation.

“I mean... you already do all of that. So, you know, maybe it wouldn’t look the same to you, being non-human, but... perhaps you could form your own... thing. Marriage is such a small term for small beings like humans... and that’s not to dispel the notion of it, it works perfectly fine for us. Maybe not perfectly, but you get my meaning. But what you have is so... _infinite_, human concepts can’t even begin to describe it. _Language_ can’t even describe it, I don’t think. How can language describe something that predates most of them?”

Crowley gave her an impressed nod.

“But you do have to remember that you’re one of us now,” Penny went on, a little drunkenly delighted, and Crowley found himself slightly enraptured in watching her explore this line of reasoning. “Obviously not in the mortal sense, but... neither of you really belongs anywhere else but _here,_ on Earth, so... maybe there’s a middle ground, something... something halfway between human marriage and... I dunno, _ethereal partnership_ that could suffice to title what you and Aziraphale have. Not that it needs a title, mind, humans do far too much labeling as it is, but... you know. Perhaps you could define it, the two of you, together. Make your own word.”

Looking very self-satisfied, Penny tossed her last shirt into the hamper and smugly took a sip of her wine.

Crowley’s mind slithered back through time, through old worlds, old civilizations, old meetings and conversations. It wound, circuitous, around things locked away, things not quite forgotten but not really remembered. Things he’d told himself he didn’t need, things he’d weaned himself off of. Things that had been taken away...

“Or an old one...” he muttered, the shadow of a single word forming at the back of his once-angelic throat. “E̴̒ͅt̴͖̋h̷̆͜a̵̖͋r̴͚͝z̵̡i̶̭̋.”

Penny stopped dead in her path to the couch, her eyes showing a hint of fear and goosebumps rising on her forearms. “What... the fuck was that?” she asked, sinking slowly to sit on the far end of the couch. “Felt like... dunno, soon as you spoke, I felt... weird. Afraid,” she finished, patting the couch to her right.

Before he’d even registered his own Pavlovian response, he was plopping onto the couch next to her and settling in comfortably.

“Enochian. Language of the angels,” he said, and her head whipped to the side to peer questioningly at him.

“Thought you didn’t remember it?”she asked.

“Don’t. I mean, not most of it. I know a few words. Spoke it during the exorcism, ‘member?”

“Oh, right. So much other occult shit going on, suppose I didn’t notice...” she mused, taking another sip. Her expression went somber, and she continued, wary, “so... wha’s’at mean then? The one you just said?”

Crowley briefly wondered what heart attacks felt like, as his hammered so hard he thought it was going to leap from his throat.

“Peace. Harmony. An amicable... arrangement...” he said, staring down into the ripples of his wine and vaguely recalling vast white hallways and someone sneering, that word echoing through the emptiness.

Penny made an adoring noise. “It’s perfect, Crowley,” she said, looping a hand under his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. “How did you say it?”

“Eh-tar-zee,” he repeated, the power of it missing as he dragged out the syllables.

“Etharzi. It’s beautiful,” Penny said, reaching for the remote. “What do you fancy watching?”

“Your house, your Telly,” he replied flatly, the heaviness of their conversation still hanging in the air and activating his ‘change the subject’ button. “Just not bloody Harry Potter. I swear, you’d think I had a hand in that...”

“What’s so bad about the _boy wizard?!”_ Penny gasped, only half shocked.

“Don’t even get me _started...”_ he groused_, _already too comfortable to bristle at the rather intimate positioning, and groaning when she started rubbing the back of his neck.

“Alright then, but you’ll have to tell me what you’ve got against Potter at some point,” she said, flipping channels. “Men in Tights?”

“Spectacular,” he said, relishing the closeness and forgetting the gaping hole within him for a few hours.

***

He was alright for a long time. There was, of course, that constant heady _pressure—_a weight like an anvil, secured through his Achilles tendon by rusty fish hooks and dragged along behind him, every second of every day. But eventually, he became numb to it, accustomed to it. And when it did become too much to drag along any longer, Penny was there to help.

She must have called Aziraphale at some point, for hints, tips. She took notice of his ticks, gleaned meaning from his silences in a way only the angel ever had. She could head off those bouts of panic, and the clenching, twisting darkness that bubbled up, seemingly without cause or warning. And she was _good at it; _offering him escapes, like car rides and lunch dates with her and Arvin. Reminding him of distractions, like tending to his plants back home, and beckoning him to help her at the bookshop.

That one was incredibly effective, and had the odd effect of lulling Crowley into an almost delirious dream-like state.

Penny had taken to creating a _system_, of sorts, if Aziraphale’s shop could be said to _have _a system. Crowley had shot down her suggestion of implementing any sort of organization that would involve _moving things, rearranging._ This was Aziraphale’s space, his home, and what right did they have to change that? He would come home, and his memories would be all wrong, things he used to know the exact location of would be frustratingly absent. No, that was out of the question. When Aziraphale was _finally_ allowed home, Crowley would ensure it was the _home_ he’d left behind. As best he could, anyway.

So Penny settled for cataloguing; taking a full inventory and creating a location reference in Aziraphale’s ancient brick of a computer. Occasionally, one of them would find a book in a state of disrepair, and they began pulling them for restoration. And _that…_ that, Crowley found therapeutic in an almost dazing way.

He could spend days, whole _weeks _even, uninterrupted, perusing the shelves like clockwork and taking reverent care of each every one. Top to bottom shelf, left to right. Pull them, check them, perhaps read a few lines; knowing that, at some point in the past, the angel’s hands had been here, his eyes had roved these pages. Put them back or pull them for repair, repeat ad infinitum. It worked for an incredibly long time.

Until it didn’t.

It hadn’t even been anything of substance. He would have thought, after all this time, that he’d come across a familiar book, a line of significance, or even just something he remembered seeing the angel hold, and it would shatter his delicate walls, the pillars he’d built to hold himself up.

But it wasn’t. Perhaps it was everything: the lovely, soothing snow piling up outside, the scent of bound leather and musty pages, the dulcet soundtrack of Tchaikovsky, the pop of a wood-burning fire, and the hum of a voice to the music. Perhaps that was what caused the earth to collapse from under him.

And Penny had handled him admirably when he descended into sobs in the middle of the shop, had almost managed to pull him back from that chomping, gnawing pit. She probably didn’t even realize what she’d said.

_Let me. Let me!_

Crowley understood exactly what about those words had upset him so badly. It was a cottage, a breakthrough, heady tears and even worse fears. A close embrace under warm covers.

_Let me_ _in, _Aziraphale had said.

What Crowley didn’t understand was why they’d hit him like a lorry, square in the chest, when Penny said them. Why he’d felt like the bookshop was coming down on him, the books, the shelves, the walls all pressing in against his ribs and threatening to crush him.

Fleeing was the only option. Fleeing had _always _been the only option. But typically he fled to Aziraphale at times like this—dressed up his panic in a natty suit and pretended he wasn’t standing on the doorstep, ready to fall to pieces. Pretended that a rejection wouldn’t cleave him in two, that he couldn’t care less either way.

He paced about his flat, arguing aloud with himself.

“You’re being bloody ridiculous, they’re just words. Just words. Calm down. Ridiculous...”

He meandered aimlessly to the wine cupboard in his kitchen and, with a spark of hope, poured himself a glass of Syrah.

But the taste rolled over his tongue like water—all flavor and enjoyment gone. Had it spoiled? Had he?

He grumbled, thinking perhaps he just needed more, and he gulped at it as he wandered the flat in search of a distraction.

With a flippant wave of a hand, a random CD transported into the player, the first notes of Billy Idol’s _Catch My Fall _seeming to mock him, but it inspired nothing. Not even the usual scoff he reserved for his devices when they behaved with semi-sentience.

He found himself in the plant room next, the mister held in his hand like a weapon. But when he opened his mouth to yell, scream, insult them... he couldn’t muster the inspiration. What had they done, besides exist? What right did he have to tell them how they should grow? If they wanted to wilt and shrivel, who was he to stop them? If they wanted to rebel, who was he to try to control them?

With a sigh that seemed to boil up from somewhere deep in his primal form, one reality back and two to the left, he dropped the mister to the floor and shuffled into his office.

He waved a hand at the Telly, and some angry news reporter began yelling about the Green Party. The sound combined with the distant crooning of Billy Idol to create a generic hum of indiscernible noise that was almost sufficient to drown out Crowley’s thoughts; _it’s because you miss him, you ruddy idiot. You want his touch, his kiss. And you can’t have it. They’ve taken it away again, always taking, and you keep letting them._

He growled again, slamming his wine glass onto the desk and sparing a miracle to ensure it didn’t crack as he wrenched the middle drawer open.

The force of it made the shoebox therein slide violently forward, slamming into the front of the drawer and popping open a bit.

Reverently, he pulled the box out and set it on the desk, peeling the lid the rest of the way off as one turns the pages in an antique book.

His heart clenched in his chest, bombarded by nostalgia and a thick, suffocating haze of want. He wanted it back, he wanted it all back so badly.

“You know, I had made my peace with You,” he said, his voice rocky but flat; barren of the tumultuous emotions rising up in his lungs, in the sinuous vertebrae-like lines of his true form, writhing beneath the flesh. “I had. Come to terms with it. Not that I was happy about it, mind, but... I was almost... _grateful._ Imagine that! Grateful! For...”

His throat rebelled as those lines in his true form recoiled with muscle memory—hitting new, sulfurous surfaces with a force that could shatter diamonds. Flames licking into their very essence and tearing them apart, molecule by molecule, and then putting them back together, black and ashen. And the screams... _oh, _the supernova screams that ripped from his ethereal throat, until whatever membrane made up his existential vocal cords shredded, and he couldn’t anymore. Feathers curling up and breaking, flesh-like barriers tearing away, layer by agonizing layer. Until what remained was nothing but a beaten, half-formed shadow of the angel that had come before.

“For _what You did,_” he finished, frowning at the fact that such a simple, inelegant sentence could sum up being thrown out, discarded, _tortured_ by She who made him. “But I was, regardless. Grateful. In a way. B’cuz it brought me to him.”

His voice wavered, and he reached frantically for his wine again, sipped at the flavorless, joyless liquid in a desperate effort to strengthen it. It did nothing but slide down his dry and ravaged throat, relieving nothing.

“And, over time, I started to think, _really think _about it. About things given and things taken away. What I lost was... monumental, _unforgivable_. Or so I thought. But then I came here. I spent thousands upon thousands of years learning not to be resentful of these new creatures you seemed to _cherish_ so much, but to respect, adore, and admire them. You kept berating them, over and over and over again, just as You did to me, to us—all the Fallen. But the humans didn’t resent You as I did, they didn’t hate and curse You. Most didn’t, anyway. They kept on going, kept on believing in You, kept on having _faith._ And it made me think about _why._ Why would they do such a thing for a vicious, vindictive, _absent_ God? And I realized, around Rome, that... they were looking not to You, not to what You’d taken away from them, but to what they’d been _given._ They had these beautiful, chaotic, incredible lives. They had hearts and minds capable of boundless love and inconceivable... _humanity._ And You gave it to them. So of course they continued to be thankful.”

He paused, twirling the glass in his hand.

“And that’s when it clicked. I looked at what I had. I had a life. I had a _home, _here on earth. I liked it... _loved it,_ even though I still thought myself incapable at the time. Chalked it up to obsession, but... I did, I loved it. I loved the beauty, the chaos. And... and I had _him.”_

Tears threatened in his eyes, but he fought them off, biting his lip painfully hard for a moment to direct his attentions elsewhere, and set the glass back down on his desk. He brought his hand to hover over the pile of documents and memoirs in the box, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch them, not yet.

“And every time I saw him, spoke to him, listened to him prattle on about some philosopher who _almost had it right, _or some new food I just _had to try,_ or _please, won’t you do me this favor... _I thought... My God, this is what you gave to me when you took everything else. And for a split second, I could see... I could see the exchange I’d made, and God! I would do it again! Over and over, every day if I had to, just to find myself back by his side, laughing and smiling, and... healing.

“And so, I’d made my peace with You. Decided not to spend every second hating You, feeling this... this... boiling, cantankerous _rage_ at what You’d done to me. It was still there, always there. But I got used to its heat, grew immune to the scabs, the itch. Because if I had him, then it was all _worth it...”_

He let his hand rest gently atop the pile in the box, and his heart did something very deadly to humans.

His voice went sour and dark when he spoke again. “But You weren’t done torturing me yet, were You?” he asked, reaching in to pull out the goofy Polaroid of himself and the angel in front of Big Ben. “I knew You were cruel and senseless, knew that when I hit boiling sulfur, felt my feathers sizzling like acid. But that wasn’t enough for You, was it?”

He set the Polaroid down on the desk, and pulled out one of the poppy cuff links rolling around the bottom of the box, beneath the mound of memories. He spun it in his fingers, the black and red glimmering like the scales of his snake form. He’d never once donned the things, but not because he didn’t like them. Quite the opposite, in fact. He loved them—loved them so much he couldn’t bear the thought of losing one. So he’d kept them safe, kept them locked away where he could pull them out on occasion, roll them in his fingertips, feel the artistry and care that had gone into crafting them, and tell himself _my angel gave these to me._

The sentiment did nothing now but make that weight in his stomach grow heavier, and he tossed it back into the box.

“Couldn’t stop there. Got a taste of the pain You caused, the utter destruction, and couldn’t stop. Maybe You should be running Hell, You’d be bloody good at it...”

The blasphemy should have felt dangerous on his tongue, but... it didn’t. Like the wine, it was flavorless and bland, the excitement of challenging Her just as joyless as the drink, the plants, the memories.

All he felt now was just... numb.

“All I ever wanted was him. You could have the rest of it, _take the rest, _I don’t even care. Rip my wings off, take my powers, make me mortal. _I don’t care._ If I could trade it all for just _him,_ then it’s a sacrifice I’d gladly make.

“B’cuz it’s not just me You’re torturing, is it? I can take it, have done. I’m used to the pain, You made sure of that. But... why him? You’re supposed to _still love him!_ So long as those feathers are still fucking white, You’re supposed to _keep him, cherish him, protect him. Hasn’t he earned that much?!_ If averting the apocalypse was really against Your wishes, then You would have Felled him and been done with it! But You didn’t! So... yet again we’re all just left to _guess_ what You want, tiptoe on shattered glass wondering _is this where I get cut?_ And all the while your ruthless, pitiless, _cruel fucking angels_ pretend to know You, speak for You, when they decide to put him through the bloody ringer to test his loyalty. And for what?! You don’t even care, do you?! How the _fuck_ could You listen to him, all those nights without his wings, crying and reaching out to You and _do nothing?!_ You left it to me, and you know what?! I picked up your bloody mess, put him back together after they broke him. I loved him, _goddamn it, _when You refused. I held him when You stayed away, I whispered to him when You stayed silent. How _dare you _give me that, and then take it away, how _dare you—”_

His throat closed up, and he was forced to stop. He wasn’t even angry anymore, just completely unsurprised—a bottle caught in raging seas, knowing he could do nothing to find the shore but wait. Wait for a God that tossed him into it with a sneer.

He pushed the box away and let it slide across the desk, standing suddenly and going for his bathroom.

“Fuck you,” he grumbled, wrenching the medicine cabinet open and grabbing whatever bottles were closest.

***

Crowley was fairly certain that the only reason he hadn’t discorporated was because he _believed_ that demonic bodies were in possession of a higher constitution than humans.

The minute he downed those pills, he’d known what he was headed for—which only made him toss a few more back just to ensure those thoughts were eradicated.

He’d gotten scared once or twice, felt his body rebelling, and sobered up before any real damage was done. It was a repeating process for a few days—down half a bottle, wait until the point of no return loomed in the distance, get scared, sober up, repeat—until the highs and lows eventually caught up to him.

He hadn’t seen the specter of Aziraphale in years. It was only in those first few months that the guilt-tripping hallucination had followed him. He’d thought he was past it. He’d thought that particular vicious piece of his subconscious had finally fallen into a suspended slumber.

Perhaps it was the drugs. Perhaps it was the brutal roller coaster ride he’d put his body through; destroying it with chemicals and then saving it in the nick of time.

But when he eventually looked up from his third failed trip, peering into the mirror to analyze his haggard, horrid appearance, and seen Aziraphale—standing there behind him, clear as day, and a pinched, disappointed kind of moue on his pristine face… Crowley snapped.

The blackout was exactly what he’d been looking for—visions and colors and sound, all bombarding him in a completely disorienting maelstrom of senselessness. Somewhere deep down, somewhere far-off and distant, he was aware that he’d gone too far. But it had silenced the ghost of Aziraphale, silenced everything, really, and that was exactly what he’d intended.

Once or twice, he thought he heard the familiar echo of too-long screams, the rumbling thunder of boiling sulfur, the shrill, shrieking laughter of demons that signified his return _home._ He could smell it, taste it—ashen and bitter in the air, on his tongue. It was reaching up, oozing puss-filled tentacles yearning to wrap around him, constrict him, suck him under. The first few times the vertigo of it hit him, he fought it on instinct—clawing back toward consciousness languidly, reaching up toward the daylight with all the smooth, snakelike tendrils of his true form. Soon enough, as his primal strength waned, he wondered why he was bothering. Why go toward that light if Aziraphale wasn’t the source? Why fight the undertow when the tide felt so welcoming? Maybe… maybe if he just let it wash over him, let them grab him…

Suddenly, excruciatingly, he was plopped back into a dying body, feeling all its little aches and needs as it fought the barrage of toxins he’d intentionally poisoned it with.

It all mixed together, overwhelming his already raw and ruined corporation. He knew Penny was there, knew she was the reason he was still here, in his ridiculously modern bathroom, vomiting his guts out, instead of in Hell, being savagely torn apart as he awaited a new body. He knew her boyfriend… whassis name—Arvin—was holding him steady, rubbing his back.

He also knew that the specter of Aziraphale was here, yelling and cursing at him for his weakness. _How could you, Crowley?! You promised! You promised me you wouldn’t do this. Damn you, Crowley, damn you back to Hell. You’re better off there, if you want it back so badly. Go on, leave! Go! Abandon me here. I don’t know why I thought this was possible, why I thought you could be anything but the _demon_ you are._

Aziraphale was yelling, Penny was yelling… or was she? She might have been whispering, but it was _loud_, everything was so _loud._

Pushing to his feet was an effort of monumental proportions. Everything hurt; burned like he’d been lounging in a hot tub in the lowest pit. The world was spinning, his ears were ringing, and his stomach was seconds away from turning again. And Aziraphale was following him, always following, as he flung himself from the balcony and away from Penny.

The cool air hit him like an icy bath, sobered him up long enough to ensure he didn’t plummet to the Mayfair concrete.

At some point he hit something—something hard and metal—his ability to fly being horrendously hindered by the fact that the horizon line wouldn’t _hold still._ The pinnacle of his left wing throbbed from the impact, and something in the bones was clicking on every extension. He relished it, though, _used that pain_ to maintain the semi-sobriety it inspired, and he _flew._

He didn’t know how long he flew, or where he was going. He only knew that he had to outlast Aziraphale, or whatever sick, false shadow was masquerading as Aziraphale. He flew until the muscles in his wings and back screamed with exhaustion, and then he flew some more, following nothing but an internal compass; a magnetic spinning needle deep inside his true form that guided him toward… something.

It was only when his wings began to rebel from overuse—growing sluggish and unsynced, that he slowly descended from the icy clouds he’d found himself in. The descent itself was rocky and violent; with whatever climate he’d stumbled upon currently experiencing vicious thunderstorms.

He was soaked to the bone by the time the ground rose to meet him, and his wings were so past responsive that they hardly flapped as he careened hard into something that felt like cobblestone. Unsure if the mighty _crash_ in his ears was thunder or his own body crumpling, he stilled, simply listening.

His left side was on fire—his knee, ribs, elbow, and shoulder protesting any attempts at getting up off the soaked earth they’d become so suddenly acquainted with.

That is, until said earth became hot beneath him. No, not hot… scorching. Searing. _Opposed._

He groaned, pushing sluggishly to prop himself on palms that began to sizzle.

_Get up, dear, please. You can’t be here…_

Crowley growled over his shoulder at the specter, pushing hard only to fail and collapse back to the cobblestones beneath him with an impressive _splash_.

_Get up. Get up, please! _

Crowley groaned, pushing to his feet and feeling the throbbing of injuries nearly everywhere. He spared a thought to mend it all, make it stop, but… nothing happened. The pain remained, the damage remained.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, blinking up through the pummeling rain at the towering visage of St. Peter’s Basilica, water cascading over his lips as he spoke. The rains were hard and unforgiving, and the holy ground was even more so.

If he’d walked in, it would have gradually gotten worse—starting with a heat beneath his feet and a pounding in his ears. It would have escalated, with every step toward the city’s holy center, its nucleus. His head would have started throbbing, his limbs would have gone weak, and his feet would have felt like they were submerged in molten lava.

As it was, he’d fallen from the sky, several other things drawing his attention over the throbbing headache and hammering heartbeat.

Now it was all piling on, a discordant, agonizing weight of shredded steel and wet, moldy cardboard dropped into the scrap heap that he already was.

But underneath it all, underneath the dull, simmering after effects of drugs and alcohol, of clipping a skyscraper, of flying for hours from London to Rome in a downpour, under the pulsating holiness that was eating away at him like acid... there was something familiar.

Like plunging his hand into boiling water to reach for the ointment at the bottom, the balm, it was clear as day. Shining through pain and darkness, disorientation and loneliness. A lighthouse beckoning through the fog.

Aziraphale.

As if he’d held it for hours, Crowley released a wailing gasp, relief mingling with the wounds to create a strange appreciation for the pain as it overwhelmed him and sent him back to his knees.

Part of him wanted to go running, screaming through the halls of St. Peter’s, looking for him. And other parts knew that much more of this, and he wouldn’t be able to do much more running... much more of _anything._

But he’d already nearly discorporated once today (was it actually still today? Or had it been days ago?), so might as well go for the gold.

His body disagreed. He tried three times to push to his feet in the pitch blackness of the empty Piazza San Pietro. Each time, they rebelled, burning with exhaustion and refusing the command. Without thinking, he snapped, reaching for his power to heal the useless thing.

He felt nothing but a drain behind his eyes and a wave of dizziness that made him groan and fight back nausea.

But... it was still worth it. He could physically _feel _Aziraphale’s presence, the real one, somewhere very close by. It soothed the aches in his body, numbed the throbbing in his head. He smiled, lowering himself to lie on the cold, wet stone.

_Get up, my dear, please! You have to go, you have to get out of this city! Now!_

“Earlier you wanted me to discorporate,” he grumbled at the ghost. “Make up your bloody mind, would you, it’s exhausting.”

He was quiet and still for a long time, lying lifeless before the church. It didn’t matter that the darkness was creeping in on him, that his breaths were becoming more difficult to take, that his skin was burning and blistering where it touched the ancient, holy stones. All that mattered was that calm, mollifying undercurrent of his angel. _He’s here, he’s close._

“Demon!”

Lacking the strength to even lift his head, he cracked his eyes open to peer at the human man approaching him, his reflective overcoat marked with the symbol of the Swiss Guard. He clicked on his torch, shining it over Crowley and abruptly came to a halt.

“God almighty,” the man said, his hand beginning to shake. “It is a demon...”

Millennia of hiding sparked fear in his subconscious, and he attempted to winch in his wings, but only managed to whine in pain as the fractured one dragged, waterlogged and heavy, over the stone.

He stilled, closing his wary eyes, and waited. Waited for a holy man to end his demonic life.

He heard a shuffling, and a click, and opened his eyes to find the man kneeling beside him, his torch pointed over Crowley’s back, no doubt to his wings.

“Why do you not flee from this place?” the man asked, his eyes roving over Crowley’s crumpled body.

Any answer Crowley might have given would be unacceptable, probably not even believed—_I’m in love with an angel that resides here. I don’t care if it kills me, I want to be near him. I don’t care if _you_ kill me. I just don’t _care_._

He exhaled, blinking slowly and looking away from the man and back to the church. _Is he in there, just beyond these walls, these doors? Does he wander the hallways at night, the pews, thinking of me? Is he thinking of me now? Can he feel me, slowly dying just to be close?_

“Will you not speak, demon? Why do you not fight to live?” the human asked, a hand rising to rest gently on Crowley’s right shoulder.

He whined, choking back a sob as even that minimal pressure pushed his left side down against the holy ground.

The man sighed, a look of actual _pity_ crossing his features.

“What is your name, child?” the man asked, leaning in to move Crowley’s sopping wet hair from his face.

Both Penny and Aziraphale had done that to him hundreds of times, countless humans had done so over the ages—moving his hair to get a better look at him.

But this human, this stranger, this holy man in a holy city... saw him, truly _saw him_ for exactly what he was, and didn’t flinch, didn’t yank his hand back in fear. He didn’t shy away or curse, scramble for his cross or pray to God to save him.

Instead, he peered sadly down at Crowley, looking in his damned snake’s eyes and _smiling._

“C-Crowley,” he choked, fighting a throat that was threatening to close up on him.

The man nodded.

“I am Salvador. Will... will you allow me to help you, my child?”

Crowley snapped his eyes back open, confusion warring with paranoia to awaken him from his delirium, if only momentarily.

“Why?” he asked, his voice harsh but broken.

The man shrugged, a sympathetic expression falling over his aged face.

“I see a fallen bird, I do not stomp on it,” he replied, straightening and holding a hand out to Crowley.

Crowley sighed, closing his eyes and refusing to take it.

“You know what I am. Why not leave me here to burn? Your church would thank you for it,” he said, ignoring the specter of Aziraphale as he paced behind Salvador and begged Crowley to take the man’s hand, to get up.

“Hm,” Salvador replied thoughtfully. “They might. Many men cut the heads off of snakes and consider it a victory. But even snakes have their place here. And you have not yet tried to bite me, so... I am not afraid. Yet.”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the unintentional irony. And as he did, he felt something deep in his chest; a pulse of something so pure that it brought tears to his serpentine eyes.

_Take it, my love. Take his hand. Get up. Please._

Groaning and trembling through immense pain, he lifted a hand and placed it in Salvador’s.

Salvador was incredibly gentle with him as he pulled him to his feet, allowing him to lean against his side for support as they began slowly walking away from the church. Crowley spared a look over his shoulder at the place he knew Aziraphale to be, his heart thumping painfully as he forced himself to turn away.

Salvador walked with Crowley for hours, leading him away from the holy heart of Vatican City. The man walked gingerly to avoid unnecessary bumps to Crowley’s ruined, dragging wings, and paused when Crowley needed to rest. He walked until the rain faded away, until the sun began to rise over old stone buildings, turning rainwater to mist and warm petrichor.

The city began to awaken around them, and Crowley knew he needed to leave. If word got around that there was a demon in the holiest city on Earth, Aziraphale wouldn’t be the only angel responding. No matter how tempting that thought was.

“I don’t know why you helped me,” Crowley said, stretching out his wings and feeling them twitch with leftover lactic acid. He didn’t typically allow the stuff to affect him, but the Vatican had a way of making him almost human. His left wing trembled near the fracture, and he made a mental note to take care of it when he was far enough away that a semblance of power returned.

“But I appreciate it. Thank you,” he said, holding out his hand.

Salvador looked down at it, his expression turning to a mixture of impressed and terrified.

“You will forgive me if I do not,” he said, grinning sheepishly and keeping his hands to himself. “I will take the snake to safety, but I do not put my finger in its mouth.”

Crowley laughed, dropping his hand to slap against his thigh. “That’s fair. Thanks anyway,” he said, taking the opportunity to examine the man.

He was not young by any stretch of the imagination—graying hair and sinking cheeks—but within his aging features was a playfulness; a youthful glint in his eye that combatted the years to give him a kind, approachable air. He was certainly an enigma Crowley would have to think on as he flew back to London—a religious man who took pity on a demon.

“I hope that whatever brought you down does not plague you for long, child. I also hope I have not made a grave mistake in saving you...”

Crowley felt that ever-present grief sneaking back in, saturating his entire self. What, exactly, about him was actually worth saving?

“Me too,” he replied flatly, leaping into the air on battered wings and leaving a bewildered Salvador in a rainbow haze of water droplets and ebony feathers.

***

Crowley had always had an excellent sense of direction. He’d initially chalked it up to his eidetic memory—as soon as his serpent’s eyes took something in, he had an ability to recall it with near-perfection. Whether this be on foot or in flight, it was all the same—he knew where he’d come from, he knew where he’d been.

Later, when certain human events had filled his eyes with tears and the air with smoke, he doubted the by-sight bit. How could he find his way if he was blind? What good was an eidetic memory if he couldn’t see what he remembered?

That was when his perception changed a bit. He didn’t remember much of his time in Heaven, just brief glimpses here and there, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in nightmares. But he did occasionally remember the molten heat in his hands, the light that blinded the hundreds of eyes of his true form. He knew he’d been a star maker, or something akin to it, so perhaps it was the north star? Polaris? Perhaps he made it, or helped, or was somehow intimately familiar with its location, relative to the Earth. Perhaps he could _feel it_, even with his eyes closed.

So he’d operated under that assumption for a few centuries… decades even. Whenever he stumbled from razed cities and flooded villages, perfectly preserved or headed in the right direction, he thought _huh, must have been Polaris._

It wasn’t until 1892, when he awoke from his hundred-year slumber and walked, without fail, directly to a newly opened bookshop (well, new to Crowley; as it turned out, the angel had purchased the site in 1803, renovated it to his liking, and opened in 1810), Crowley started to connect the dots, as it were.

He was drawn in a singular direction, it was true. He sensed it, like Polaris, saw it with those serpentine eyes. But it wasn’t any of those things.

It was a solar point in SoHo, or so he’d thought, after 200 years of constantly veering back to that place for long drunken chats, short, comfortable naps, and stimulating, wonderful conversation.

Now, everything just felt _off._ His mind told him to turn around, go back, no matter how much it _burned,_ no matter how heavy the pressure on his chest. His heart told him to bare left 3 degrees and head for SoHo. His aching, wounded wings told him to alight wherever was closest and most convenient. And his body… his body just wanted to give up.

He wasn’t even sure which one he was listening to. He just flew and flew until the burn in his wings and back became too much to bear, and he slowly descended through rich, mid-day clouds. When they cleared, he smiled to find that he’d apparently developed another point on his mental map.

The cottage rose to meet him much faster than he intended, but at this point, his wings would barely stay extended. His legs were so weak when he set down that they gave out, sending him to his knees in the gravel and shredding both his trousers and knees. He knew there should have been pain, but it didn’t even register.

Hours past as he simply knelt before the cottage, wings collapsed to the ground behind him. If people passed by, saw him as he truly was, he didn’t notice or care. Perhaps Heaven would get mad at him for his blatant disregard of the ‘rules,’ perhaps Hell would. He’d welcome any of them.

It was near sunset when he finally looked up at the place he’d come to call home, just as much as the bookshop, and realized it had no name.

“Cottages should have names,” he mumbled to himself, pushing weakly to his quaking legs and allowing his wings to drag the ground behind him, creating macabre, blood and feather-caked trails through the gravel.

Bringing a hand to rest to the left of the door, he summoned whatever power he’d regained during flight, and created a beautiful bronze plaque inlaid with a brocade border and looping, elegant script.

_Eden,_ it read.

Once inside, he shuffled numbly through the rooms and halls that they’d lived in, _made a home in._ The sitting room was silent and bereft of fuzzy, well-played vinyl records. The library was dusty and untouched, _unloved;_ not a single track through the particles where a book had been pulled from the shelf.

Out in the conservatory, the plants were as green and flawless as he’d known they’d be, after all he had spent a decent amount of time threatening them when last he’d been in (and also set up an intricate overhead watering system that never ran dry and operated on a demonically enhanced ‘only water when they need it’ schedule). But their perfection meant nothing. It brought him nothing. If they’d all been dead, he’d have felt the same.

Nothing.

The bedroom sparked something… a momentary burst of sensory memory that had his palms itching, but it was quickly snuffed out by an immense weight—grief and loss suffocating whatever fleeting memory he’d had of lying in bed, a soft, reassuring hand tracing masterpieces through his hair and down his back as he slowly drifted, comfortable and safe.

With a whine, he snapped his fingers to transport his angel blanket from SoHo, and felt the drain as it threatened to make his knees give out again. Clutching it to his chest, he flopped onto the duvet, his tattered wings following and spreading out unnaturally at his back.

_Come on, Crowley, this isn’t really how you’re going to spend the rest of the trial? You haven’t even healed yourself, you’re a right mess, is what you are._

Crowley groaned, resituating to allow more room for his wings, and for curling into a fetal position around his blanket.

“Shut up,” he growled, closing his eyes. “You’re not bloody real.”


	59. The Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature  
Depression, mention of drug overdose, mention of self-harm
> 
> A note: I know almost nothing about the Vatican, and have never been. Please excuse any errors made in that regard.

Aziraphale was tired. And not just from the two and a half-hour flight from Heathrow to Rome, and the subsequent cab ride. Not from the nonstop reading he’d done in his copy of Italian for Dummies, reigniting the flames of knowledge he’d once had but stored away about thirty years ago. Not from miracling his way into St. Peter’s Basilica without so much as a peep from The Gendarmerie Corps, nor from establishing a humble residence within the Palazzo Apostolico.

Not even from the much more substantial miracle of placing himself within the inner sanctum of the papacy, with access to almost anyone and every location. It wasn’t as if Heaven had commanded him to complete any sort of mission while here, in fact it had been Crowley’s idea to come to the Vatican in the first place. But he knew he would need something to _do, _something to _accomplish _while there, idle hands and such like. More so, it was the desire, no, the _need_ for a distraction; something to take his mind off of why he was _really _there. And of all the human places of faith marred by corruption, bastardization of God’s Word, and hypocrisy... the papacy could do with a fair bit of _good._

No, Aziraphale was emotionally drained. It had only been a week since he arrived, and he already felt as though he had years of work under his belt, and hundreds more lying spread out before him.

And of course there was the massive aching wound in his heart. He found that, even in the busiest of times, he only managed to keep his thoughts from migrating back to Crowley for about an hour. And thinking of him _hurt so badly._ He desperately wanted to just ring him up, hear the sweet, deep timber of his voice. Hear him brag about some beautifully-executed temptation, some knee-slappingly funny prank he’d pulled on the poor common people of London. Even just hear him breathing. He’d settle for any of it.

But instead he had to settle on calling Penny to check up. She’d provided him with what Crowley referred to as “an old people phone” before he left—a small handheld thing the color of black coffee with giant buttons mimicking a telephone’s number pad. In fact, she’d joked that if they’d made mobiles with a rotary, she’d have gotten him that, but alas, they didn’t.

He found himself absently strolling through the Vatican Gardens, his heart sick at the stunning beauty of the neatly trimmed hedgerows, the clusters of gorgeous flowers, the lines of almost perfectly vertical trees. Crowley would love them. He wouldn’t admit to it, of course, certainly wouldn’t ever compliment the horticulture skills of pious men, but... Aziraphale could practically see him there, hovering just off the Via dell’Aquilone, stunning in all black and practically shimmering in the high, unclouded sun. His hair a wild inferno atop his head, and a beauteous, slender hand outstretched to gently inspect a flawless leaf, caressing the veins of verdant chlorophyll and releasing a disappointed _hmmpf _when he couldn’t find a single flaw to insult.

“Aziraphale? You there?”

He had almost forgotten he was speaking to Penny, and nearly dropped the frustratingly tiny mobile into the gravel path when her voice sliced into his little requiem.

“Oh, oh, sorry love. Distracted,” he mumbled, the specter of Crowley vanishing into thin air with the breeze and taking another little piece of Aziraphale with it.

“S’alright,” Penny replied, her voice soft and tinted with pity. “How are you doing? All settled in?”

“Oh yes. Don’t need much, me. They’ve provided me some humble accommodations in the Apostolic Palace; a cozy little room with a bed and a stove, and a mini fridge. Not that I’ll use much of it... really just need somewhere I can sit and read. Perhaps I’ll make a few meals, when I’m not out and about, keep a bottle or two in the fridge. I’m not even sure what I convinced them that I _do here,_ but nevertheless, everyone seems to have accepted my presence.”

“Well that’s good...” Penny said, quiet. “How’s the Italian coming along? Coming back to you at all?”

“Oh, yes. Like riding a bike, as you humans say. Certain phrases just pop back up, like some kind of... Jack in the Box, but with words.”

Penny giggled, and Aziraphale delighted to hear it. At present, he’d take even the slightest morsel of joy.

“I was last here during the papal conclaves in 1978. Stayed for quite some time, and got pretty good at the language, if I do say so myself...”

“Wait, conclave_s. _With an ‘s’?” Penny asked hurriedly.

“Oh yes, there were two that year, very sad, the whole business. One of the quickest approvals in papal history, and a man I truly admired, John Paul I. Do you know, they called him_ Il Papa del Sorriso—_The Smiling Pope. He was so warm and inviting, and welcoming. He was what the church _should be, _what _Heaven should be...”_

Aziraphale could hear the saturated bitterness dripping from his words, heavy as syrup, but couldn’t be bothered to reject it, not anymore.

“Thirty-three days after his election, he passed away. It, er... it was actually one of the few times I looked to the heavens and... and asked _why._ Although... that’s becoming much more common these days...”

There was a very burdened silence on the other end, not even a breath to be heard.

“How... how is he holding up?” Aziraphale asked finally, impressed that he’d actually waited _this long_ in the conversation to inquire. When he’d landed at the airport in Rome, he hadn’t even waited to de-plane before booting that ridiculous mobile and phoning Penny to ask on Crowley.

“Erm... the same, really. No worse, no better. Hasn’t left my couch for eight days. Hardly moves, hasn’t eaten anything. Won’t drink either, even the good stuff. And I doubt he’s sleeping, but there’s no way to tell with him. He did finally shift back into man-shaped form, so... that’s progress, at least. I hope,” Penny said, her voice lowering, Aziraphale assumed, to ensure Crowley didn’t hear her talking about him.

“Arvin was by the other day, and... well, he knows now. I mean _really knows._ Saw Crowley in his snake form and everything.”

“Oh...” Aziraphale muttered, still hung up on Crowley, lying on Penny’s couch, wallowing. He scrounged around in his head, though, attempting to find the societal expectation for this kind of thing. He recalled meeting Penny’s boyfriend over dinner, but he’d been without his wings at the time and incredibly distracted. The lad had seemed nice enough, and simply oozed with adoration for Penny, so he felt it necessary to dig up some interest.

“And? How did he take it?” he asked, nodding politely to Julien, a groundskeeper he had befriended the instant he stepped foot in the garden a week precious. The young Frenchman had reminded Aziraphale of Crowley. Not in appearance, but demeanor; the way he practiced tough love with his charges, often speaking softly to the greenery as he clipped and watered.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Penny replied, chipper. “Even petted him a bit.”

“Oh, I’m sure Crowley _loved that,”_ Aziraphale drawled with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

“You know, I actually think he did,” Penny replied wistfully. “He did his typical amount of hissing and grousing, but... I don’t think he was in any mood to keep up the tough charade. I think... I think he relished the sympathetic touch.”

Aziraphale felt a twinge in his chest, like his heart was twisting around on his veins like a marionette.

“Yes. Yes, he does.”

***

A week and a half later, Penny called him in a tizzy, saying that Crowley had just got up and left, and that he wasn’t permitting her into his flat, wasn’t accepting her calls. She said she’d briefly located him at the shop, and that she’d thought she was getting through to him, but then he disappeared back into his flat, and kept yelling at her to leave when she stopped by.

Aziraphale’s worry ratcheted twenty times higher, and he wasn’t remotely reassured when Penny hung up, telling him she would keep trying, wouldn’t give up. It was admirable, to have the poor girl so set on helping, but... she was just one human. A great one, no doubt about it, but... just one. And when Crowley got his mind set on something, he almost always followed through.

Aziraphale found himself standing beneath the dome inside St. Peter’s, staring up at the long, piercing sunbeams spilling through those high, arched windows. They felt like spotlights, accusing just as much as they were illuminating.

Looking up at them, he steeled himself, pressing his palms together in front of his heart, and spoke.

“Hello. I don’t know if you even hear me anymore, even _want _to hear me. According to the council, I have much to atone for. And if that’s true, I suppose I will submit to your will, as I’ve always done. However, these days my questions are many, my answers few. But that’s been the case for all of us, for quite a long time now, so I shall accept my lot with... well, with grace, I hope.”

He sighed, blinking away a swell of emotion.

“And if I betrayed you, I am sorry. I believed I was doing the right thing. I only wished to preserve the love I’ve found here on earth, all of it. My love for humanity, their love for life, and... yes, my love for Crowley. Nowhere else but Earth is our love possible. Perhaps that makes my decision to avert the apocalypse selfish, but... d’you know what? _So be it._”

His voice was harsher than he’d intended, but he didn’t regret it, not in the slightest.

“I love him, and I will not apologize. If you didn’t want me to love him, then perhaps you shouldn’t have made him so lovable.”

He smiled up at the sunbeams, hoping She took it for the compliment it was.

“But... I will settle for what I’ve been given, as every human does. I only have one question left... a request, actually. Pardon me, presuming to ask anything of you, but it’s simple. I don’t want much these days.”

He inhaled, felt his resolve fill his heart to bursting, and let it out.

“Please, God, I beg of you... _let no harm come to him._ You made me a guardian, and I’ve no gate to keep watch over anymore. So I took him for my own, shielding him from Heaven and Hell alike. I made a promise to him...”

His voice broke then, remembering the vows he spoke so passionately that night at the bookshop.

“I promised to watch over him, guard him, cherish him. With the heart you bestowed on me, with the love you filled me with, I vowed to be his keeper, and by You, I will. But I... I can’t. I can’t now, and won’t be able to for a while to come.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him, redeem him. I’m not even sure he’d want it. But... I am asking that you protect him once more, just for a little while, when I am unable to. Surely you owe him that?”

It felt dangerous, implying that God owed anyone anything. But again, he refused to regret it. She had thrown Crowley away 6000 years ago, and then had the absolute _gall_ to make him sweet, make him kind, make him perfect, despite it all.

Somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing, and hymns could be heard echoing around the massive cathedral. And, as usual, no answer came. Just sunbeams and silence.

Aziraphale lowered his head, closing his eyes in reverence and keeping his hands clasped together.

“Please, Lord. _Let no harm come to him. _Amen.”

***

Fretting over Crowley did nothing but torture Aziraphale, and learning to push through it was a bit of a trial. He knew he had to come to terms with their separation, knew that he _couldn’t _break it. So, eventually, after a couple of months, Aziraphale learned how to cope—throwing himself into his work so diligently that he hardly had time to think of much else. He enacted blessings, he attended services and spread good will and faith, and finally found himself the perfect distraction.

The Apostolic Archives.

Aziraphale found this the only thing sufficient enough to actually draw his attention, make him forget for the longest periods of time. And he intended to take full advantage of it. With the wary (and miracle-induced) approval of the archive executive (Paolo Vincenti, a portly man of fifty-three, with a sharp eye for relics and a love of books that rivaled Aziraphale’s), he took to reading, preserving, and restoring the considerable and priceless collection.

He spent days, _weeks _at a time in the archives, often staying overnight with the help of a small miracle to convince Paolo that he was allowed.

It was intoxicating, being surrounded by so much collected knowledge—literal miles of bookshelves—so many antiquities that he’d literally watched come into being; the marriage annulment of King Henry VIII, transcripts from Papal trials of heretics, and letters upon letters from Kings, Queens, Emperors, and, most surprisingly, angels.

They were written using pseudonyms, obviously, but Aziraphale found a number of correspondence that bore the divine signature of angels. It was like a dull aura, the signature of an angel, and could only be spotted by other angels. Each one bore slight differences from the others, like a fingerprint, and Aziraphale found he was able to recognize a few—Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, the usual suspects.

It was six months in when Aziraphale was struck by something familiar.

He’d been going through the letters, finding them a fair bit more entertaining than papal registers. These letters were people’s lives, people’s loves, people’s private thoughts.

He was sat on the cold stone floor, his overcoat folded up several times and stuffed under his bum for comfort, and his back against the bookcase. He’d been on a bit of a bender, as it were, reading for several days without ever returning to his quarters. He’d found that he often became despondent in his room, lying alone on that bed, hand instinctively reaching out to stroke through soft red locks and finding only cold, empty sheets. So he only ever returned to his room when absolutely necessary, and kept almost exclusively to the archives, sometimes the gardens.

It came tumbling from a pile of personal letters, all written on 16th century vellum, preserved rather well for their considerable age. And when Aziraphale reached out to pluck it from the floor, it hit him like a brick to the temple—but not with pain, with longing.

_Crowley._

In the slight aura hovering about the page, it was as clear as if the demon was standing right there, before him. It was cool and clean, tinted red but still managing a glow, like the sunsets over the cliffs in the South Downs.

With trembling hands, he brought the page up to reading height, fixing those familiar elegant, looping letters in his teary eyes.

It began; _Dearest Mary, my Queen._

_Ah._ So it had been during Crowley’s time in the court of Mary I of Scotland. It was a prolonged stay that had started as part of the Arrangement, but had morphed into something greater; a passion project for Crowley, once he’d grown to know the woman who would be one of England’s most infamous stories.

_It is with heavy heart but fervent wishes that I hope his letter finds you well. Inexhaustible is your patience at present, although I know not why. I must again apologize that I cannot yet join you at Bolton Castle. My efforts are continuously and sufficiently thwarted by that fustilarian Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. In point of fact, I half believe he waits for any rider I might send just to intercept them, the thieving ponce. And if he does, he shall find a single gold coin drenched in horse piss, as a token of my favour. If this coin should make it to you, my Queen, kindly disregard._

_Suspicion has steadily risen, effectively blocking my travel opportunities, and should I hasten for Bolton Castle, such suspicion would certainly befall the both of us._

_But rest assured, this heart shall not be stymied. I have made a promise, not only to you, but to a dear friend of mine, that I shall bless your reign and free you from these oppressive doubters and accusers. My work remains ever diligent, as does my dedication to you, my regent, my friend. I shall not fail you._

_Loyally your servant,_

_Sir Anthony J. Crowley_

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his chest, clutching over his heart and feeling it quicken.

It had been part of the arrangement. Aziraphale was initially supposed to go and bless the up-and-coming Queen, and her first marriage. But Crowley had offered to take it, as he was being sent to Edinburgh for an unrelated temptation. The job had exploded as Mary went from Queen of Scots, to Queen of England, to imprisoned on suspicion of murder.

And it hadn’t helped that Mary was exactly the kind of human Crowley gravitated toward—beautiful, witty, and incredibly ambitious. Thus, even when Aziraphale offered to take the job back, as it had pigeon-holed Crowley into a much larger and lengthier task, Crowley decided to see it through. He had befriended the contentious Queen, and truly enjoyed her company.

And, after twenty years of exhaustive efforts, both to bless the young Queen and tempt those around her, in a vicious and purely human turn of events, Crowley was present as she died on a draped black Great Hall in Fotheringhay.

It was one of the very few times Aziraphale had seen Crowley genuinely upset at the passing of a human life. The demon wore an unyielding mask of indifference, typically, but when they saw each other again almost a year after Mary’s execution, Aziraphale had seen the demon wipe away tears as he spoke of her charm and knife-sharp wit.

_I have made a promise, _the letter had said, _not only to you, but to a dear friend of mine... I shall not fail..._

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, sniffing back sobs. At the time, Aziraphale had thought Crowley was just unnaturally attached to Mary, and perhaps he had been. But he also, apparently, viewed his failure to save the disgraced Queen as a failure to Aziraphale.

“No, _no, dear heart, _you didn’t fail me,” he whimpered, letting his fingertips trail over the ink-raised letters of _Anthony J. Crowley, _feeling the ghostly presence of those bony fingers dancing over the page in a waltz of words. “You never did anything wrong by me, love, never.”

He struggled for a moment to fight back the tears, but eventually got them under control only under the pretense that, if he started, he’d never stop. Not for eleven whole years.

Sniffling, Aziraphale peered around mischievously, looking for Paolo, and when he didn’t see or hear anyone nearby, he rolled up the letter delicately, and stuffed it into his waistcoat, over his heart. It was only one relatively meaningless letter to a long-dead Queen, anyway. No one would miss it.

***

Aziraphale had garnered a nickname for himself among the staff in the Vatican. He’d taken to walking the gardens every day, and as such, he frequently crossed paths with the gardener, Julien. Apparently, as he wound aimlessly around the twisting, serpentine paths, he did so with solemnity. So Julien had begun referring to him as _l’ange triste_. The sad angel.

Where he got the angel notion from, Aziraphale had no clue. Frankly, it worried him that perhaps he was emitting something—something identifiable by humans, but it didn’t worry him enough to force any action. After all, an angel in the Vatican would probably be good press.

Not that he cared all that much for creating good press for either the church or Heaven, not anymore. Enacting blessings and generally doing good was, these days, more of a distraction from his not quite broken but very fragile heart.

He had a feeling Penny was omitting things from their conversations, regarding Crowley, so as not to worry Aziraphale too much. The details she gave about anything remotely negative were vague and broad._ ‘He’s having a tough time, recently,’_ or _‘yeah, he had a bad day.’_

And, while he could see the good intentions underlying her decision to do so, he preferred to know the truth, no matter how hideous.

Or he thought he did.

It was a crisp, foggy Tuesday morning, and Aziraphale was out wandering the gardens. Bitingly cold moisture hung in the air, forming a glittering sheen on the greenery perfect for tourist pictures. But the gardens were nearly deserted, save for Julien and a few other groundskeepers, due to the weather—fragile humans stuck to the warm churches and restaurants, venturing out only to scurry to a new, indoor sightseeing location. But the dewdrops new better than to alight on Aziraphale’s priceless vintage clothing, he saw to that. And only after he’d spent a few minutes chattering with Penny about her upcoming graduation that he remembered to protect the phone as well.

“And erm... forgive me for sounding like a broken record, but... how is he?” he prodded cautiously.

There was a long pause, longer than he was comfortable with, and Penny released a sudden but halted sob.

“Oh God,” he breathed, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the gravel walkway and feeling like he might just collapse. “What... _what is it, Penny, please tell me...”_

He felt his breaths coming faster and faster and he had to detour to the left to lean on a small statue of a cherub readying their bow.

“He, erm... he was getting really bad—wasn’t letting me in to see him, yelling at me. He’s been _so angry, _Aziraphale... _so angry. _It started to scare me, but I never gave up, I didn’t, I swear. I went by twice a week, for the longest time, and he never let me in.”

She paused, a heaving sigh creating static in the line for a moment.

“I went by the other day for my bi-weekly attempt, and... I ran into him in the lobby...”

She paused again, and worry rampaged through Aziraphale’s veins so hard he hurried to a nearby fountain to sit on its circular half-wall.

“He was crazed, mumbling something I couldn’t make out. His eyes were glowing red, and he hadn’t even bothered with his sunglasses. I tried to approach him, but... he snarled at me, fangs and everything. Naturally, I’m not scared of him, but... I dunno, it gave me pause. It felt like seeing a loving family dog infected with rabies.

“Well, I... I followed him and tried to talk to him, but it was like I wasn’t even there, like he couldn’t hear me. He went straight for his Bentley in the car park, and started pacing around it... mumbling something about you being disappointed, and that something was the Bentley’s fault? I dunno, I’ve just... never seen him like that...”

His heart felt like it was caught in a vice, wrenching tighter and tighter. That didn’t stop it from hammering in anticipation of the punchline.

“He took a sledgehammer to the Bentley, Aziraphale...”

_“What?!”_ Aziraphale shrieked, hearing his own voice echoing off the old stone walls of the outbuildings all around him.

“I made him fix it,” Penny hurried on as Aziraphale’s ears started ringing, his wings started itching in the ethereal plane, readying to take to the sky and fly back to London.

“Literally, I used the Trinity to force him. I felt awful doing it, but... I didn’t know what to do, Az, he was out of control. I... made him come home with me, and when I ran up to his flat to grab the blanket you gave him... his place was _destroyed. _I mean... practically rubble. The only things he didn’t touch were the plants.”

Aziraphale honed in on the one shining sparkle of good news.

“You... you did manage to get him to come home with you?” he asked, his voice shaking badly.

“Yes. I sat with him for a while. He came down eventually, but he didn’t remember doing any of it. And he said... he said he’d accidentally hurt himself, that’s what started this whole mess. That’s what he was mumbling, about you being disappointed. He was so upset with himself that... that he went on a rampage.”

There was a silence in which the two of them simply breathed, Aziraphale taking it all in. Crowley was back to his usual ways, and there was no one to stop him. Well, not no one... but someone he wouldn’t allow to help him.

“He’s alright now. I think,” Penny said at last. “Slept for several _days_ once he finally calmed down. He’s upstairs now, but I don’t think he’s sleeping. I don’t think he’s sleeping at all, to be honest. He just seems exhausted. I know you can’t technically _get _exhausted, but... it’s all mental, I think. I just... _I wish I could do more...”_

Aziraphale struggled to find words for a moment, swallowing past a throat that felt like sandpaper. “No, no, Penny, you’re doing just fine. There’s nothing you can do if he won’t let you, and... I don’t want you exhausting yourself either. Just... erm, if I might... a few suggestions?”

“Absolutely, lay ‘em on me! I’ll take whatever I can get!” Penny gasped helplessly.

“Right. Well... you have to just poke and prod with little suggestions. He’ll do the right thing eventually, you just... you have to make it annoying. Like a fly in his face. Little suggestions here and there—don’t you want to take a nap? Shouldn’t you eat a little something? And you’ll have to head off his excuses, or he’ll just toss them at you ceaselessly. _I know you don’t get tired, but doesn’t the warmth sound nice? I know you don’t need food, but it’ll be comforting? _Things like that. And you have to just keep hounding him and hounding him. He’ll cave. But you can’t be too obnoxious, or he gets frustrated and flees. It’s a balance, a give and take, but I’ve noticed that when he starts to get bothered, he taps away with his middle finger, so look for that. Just... just stay in his orbit. He needs that presence, even if he acts like he wants space. I think he... after so many years of chasing me, he’s developed this self-imposed isolation, so that he can’t get hurt. But he doesn’t realize that that, too, hurts. Suppose it’s all my fault, really... he doesn’t go for what he wants, or needs, because... because he’s trained himself for the rejection.”

He sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And I had only _just_ begun to break him of those habits. I’m so sorry you have to clean up my mess...”

“Well he certainly is a mess, but I don’t mind doing it. Just call me your angelic janitor,” Penny supplied, which finally got Aziraphale cracking a smile. “Really though, I’m not just doing this because you asked me to. I care about him too, strange as that may seem, and... I took an oath when I cast the Trinity, and... that oath is to both of you. I just... I want you both to be happy...”

Her voice had started to shake, and he knew if she started, he would too.

“Oh, Penny, please don’t cry, if you start, I will too, and... oh, the Vatican has enough fountains as it is.”

Penny barked a bitter laugh, inhaling hard to stop herself crying.

“I’m not gunna give up, Aziraphale,” she said finally. “I’ll keep trying.”

“I know you will, Penny, and I’m forever in your debt for it. And thank you for telling me, even though it was difficult.”

“F’course. I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Yes. Goodbye, Penny.”

Aziraphale closed the little phone and pocketed it, sitting for only a moment before he collapsed forward to bury his head in his hands, and wept.

The cries were intense and shocking even to Aziraphale, who hadn’t felt himself shaking apart like this since... well, certainly since the exorcism. His dear Crowley was hurting, and there was nothing he could do. That simple fact was a stone, heavy in his chest, and nothing would dislodge it.

Nothing, it seemed, except for the shining beauty of humanity.

“Pardon, monsieur? I do not mean to intrude...”

Aziraphale sat up, his face both hot from the emotion and cold from the chilling tears. He wiped at the tracks quickly, attempting and failing to compose himself as Julien stepped off the path, set down his little canvas bag of gardening tools, and took a seat on the fountain’s edge next to Aziraphale.

“I see you crying,” Julien said in his broken English, laying a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the simple yet monstrous weight of a human’s empathy, without knowing anything of the problem, threatened to bring back the tears.

“And I do not ask why. This is not for me to know. But... I sit with you for a while? Keep you company?”

Aziraphale pulled his handkerchief from his inner breast pocket, dabbed at his cheeks, and nodded in appreciation.

“I’d like that very much,” he said, attempting to take a deep breath and only managing a shudder.

They sat for a long time in silence, listening to the soothing sound of the fountains and the distant hum of traffic noise as it echoed through the fog eerily. Somewhere in the fog, the sound of chirping and flapping wings could be heard, and it made Aziraphale’s twitch with longing.

“Julien?” he asked quietly, loathe to disrupt the silence but needing to know. “Why do you call me l’ange triste?”

His French was likely horrendous, but Julien clearly understood, because he colored and averted his gaze down to his feet, which he used to bashfully kick a few rocks.

“Oh, I do not mean for you to hear this,” he said bashfully.

“Oh, no, it’s fine, really,” Aziraphale hurried to explain. “I was just curious why.”

“Well, because you always look so sad in these gardens,” Julien said. “I see you every day, and you never smile. A man who can stand in this much beauty and not be inspired... that is a very sad man.”

Aziraphale supposed the young lad was right... the gardens only reminded him of one thing, and he certainly had nothing to smile about in that regard.

“Yes, but... why _l’ange?” _he prodded.

Julien considered him for a moment. “Well... a man who has so much sadness in his soul but still helps others? Still cares for this place, for these people? Is like... an angel.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to sob, and instead reached out and grasped Julien’s wrist in gratitude.

“My daughter, God bless her, she... she learns English,” Julien said, turning back to gaze wistfully over the garden. “She sees her mother with the frown, and she is practicing English at home, with me. So she comes to me and says, papa, where is mama’s smile? Of course, she means to ask _why does mama frown, _but she does not know the words_._ But instead of correct her, I point at her...”

He paused, pressing his finger against his chest.

“Heart,” Aziraphale supplied.

“Yes, heart. I point there, and I say _it is here, mon amour. _And she laughs, and she runs to tell her mother, who of course smiles. And she points and says to me _her smile is back.”_

Aziraphale suddenly felt a vicious need to meet this young girl, to bless her and hug her and take in all her innocence.

Julien smiled sadly, returning his hand to Aziraphale’s back, which he rubbed twice.

“Your smile will return, my friend. It may take a long time, but you will find it again. And I hope to see it when it does.”

Aziraphale felt a single tear make it past his barricades, and he grasped Julien’s shoulder in return.

“Thank you, Julien. Bless you.”

And if he spared a small miracle to really make it stick, well... no one was the wiser.

***

Aziraphale tutted quietly at the sight of the little chicks, Swifts by the look of them, dozing quietly in the tiny nest just outside his window. Their tiny, fluffy chests rose and fell quickly, their eyes closed to the world. The mother was absent, which meant they felt content enough, _safe enough, _to sleep in his presence.

With a pang in his chest, he recalled the first time Crowley ever fell asleep in front of him.

It was laughably close on the heels of the forming of their Arrangement. Well, close for a pair of immortals, anyway. And thinking back now, Aziraphale realized with rapidly rising guilt, that this was likely because Crowley trusted him long before they ever made the pact.

The year was 1055. Milan was a city in chaos. The Catholic Church was experiencing massive upheaval and strife, in a monumental split of believers that would come the be called The Great Schism. Crowley had claimed it as a major success on his part, but hadn’t really done much, or so he said. He’d really just been whispering in the ears of higher-ups, tempting them to turn to conflict, even though it was already on their tongues.

Aziraphale, his doubt brand new and freshly stoked, didn’t believe him for a second. He had been upset when he ran into the demon at the market, blaming him and spitting insults galore. His workload had been doubled of late, instructed to contain this mess, and all he’d really wanted to do was sit down with the beautiful and mysterious _Le Chanson de Roland, _a piece he’d been intending to read but never found the time for.

At one point, he’d even waxed on the rashness of their Arrangement, and perhaps they should call it off, shouldn’t they? Surely it was brazen and unwise, should just cut cords now, before it goes any further.

“Well... allow me to explain? Surely you can spare me that? Ten minutes, it’s all I ask.”

Aziraphale pouted, unsure.

“I’ll bring wine?”

Four hours later, the two of them were lounging in Aziraphale’s modest villa, an innumerable amount of empty clay jugs scattered about haphazardly. Crowley had come out of the gate swinging, detailing how the humans were the ones finding fault in their religious institutions, it had nothing to do with demonic temptation. He was going to take credit, mind, be bloody stupid to pass up the opportunity, but the humans didn’t like being squashed under foot by rites and practices that they disagreed with. They didn’t respect a leader they hadn’t been offered the chance of choosing. And what was worse, their concerns, their _voices _were ignored, were silenced by cross and steel alike. They felt swindled, so of course half of them would rebel, would split from the group and create their own way. That was the thing with humans, wasn’t it, right back to the very garden it started in?

Aziraphale had nipped in with a murmured “well that was all your demonic work too, wasn’t it?” But Crowley brushed past it with the ease of snake skin on slick stone, waving a hand and gulping his wine, going on about “no, tha’s _choice!_ It’s what God _intended, _isn’t it? Choices? Free bloody will? Why let them choose if you ruddy well don’t _want them too.”_

Aziraphale had considered snapping back with “no, the point was to give people the _right _choice, and the _wrong _choice,” but he just knew Crowley wasn’t inebriated enough yet to give up the ghost. He’d likely prattle on about “well if you give people choices but expect them to choose the one you _want _them to, then it’s not free will, is it? It’s the illusion of it!”

So Aziraphale had taken one for the team, uttering a settled little “hmm” that seemed to quell the demon’s intensity for the moment.

Aziraphale had changed the subject then to more casual matters; what have you been up to since I saw you last? Try any new foods? I’ve just been invited by the clergy to feast with them after the fast, I’m most pleased. It’ll be a jolly good time. Oh, and the literature! These humans are so meticulous about documenting their experiences, their _history,_ it astounds me! Not even the celestial archives are so well maintained, but not for my lack of trying, mind. When I told them I wished for us to have better record-keepers, they suggested I be recalled to do it myself, and I certainly wasn’t having any of _that. _So, to each his own, I suspect. My dear, are you even listening?

Aziraphale had, at first, been a little put off by the demon’s closed eyes, slack mouth, and even breaths. ‘_I’m so sorry, am I boring you?!’ _he’d almost said.

But he paused, noting how vulnerable the demon was like this. He was dead to the world—completely powerless, completely _defenseless. _And what was more, he’d intentionally let himself become so, and in the presence of _an angel,_ to boot.

At that point, Aziraphale’s heart felt like it was leaping into his chest. He set his wine down and approached, quietly of course, so as not to wake the demon, and he _watched. _He watched intently for hours.

He’d never understood the human proclivity for sleeping, and certainly didn’t see the point in indulging himself. His body did not become tired, and it seemed an awful waste of time, so why bother? But Crowley, it seemed, had taken a shining to it. And he was so _at peace, _lying there slightly curled into himself, hands gone slack and his normally tightly-wrung muscles completely still. He could almost pass for _a human,_ small and exposed and weak.

And in spite of this... or perhaps _because of it,_ Aziraphale couldn’t deny that he was _beautiful._ A creature capable of such evil (or so he believed at the time), a creature of so much _power,_ laid out and bare; no hint of anything other than wistfulness on his motionless features. His hair was quite long, as it had been in the garden, and it spread out beneath him, the fiery waves seeming to gleam and glow with the illusion of movement in the dim light. His eyes moved behind his eyelids, and Aziraphale felt a pang of admiration and wonder—the demon was _dreaming,_ actually dreaming. Did he dream of ripping throats from his enemies, torturing human souls and damning them? No, Aziraphale couldn’t see such a serene face on something like that. Perhaps he dreamed of lush gardens and fresh, broken earth. Perhaps he dreamed of Heaven, if he could remember it. Perhaps he dreamed of flying, high and free with the birds, God’s clouds and air and warmth filling his wings as they once had. The options were boundless, and Aziraphale was almost desperate to know, to understand.

He had felt a very sudden and very fierce protectiveness, even then, with the Arrangement so new and fragile. He felt that he’d been handed a great and noble honor; trust. Trust, from his mortal and immortal enemy. A trust so deep and vast that it offered up everything the demon was, everything that could be so easily _taken away_ by just a single angelic miracle, and it was offered on a silver platter without strings or boundaries attached.

Crowley trusted him; trusted him with his life, enough to offer it freely and know, deep down, that no harm would come to him while he slept.

Aziraphale had nearly wept at the offering, as he sat beside the slumbering demon, considering all that it meant. Of course they wouldn’t break their Arrangement, how could they? It had been made out of laziness on both their parts, if Aziraphale was honest with himself, but it was clear now that that wasn’t the only reason.

Crowley had been trying to say, when he held a hand out and agreed to their terms, that he trusted Aziraphale, that he believed they didn’t have to hurt or fear one another. He’d been trying to say ‘hold my life in your hands, and I’ll hold yours. I swear to watch over it, protect it, _cherish it.’_

Of course, by the time morning rolled around, and the demon stirred, Aziraphale had fallen back on age-old habits, and acted as if nothing was amiss. He shooed the demon off as if a massive barrier hadn’t been shattered the night before, and they parted, as they always did, with a nonchalant wave of the hand, and flippant “be seeing you.” But, underneath it all, the brainwashing and the blind loyalty, Aziraphale had known then that things would never be quite the same. Crowley had given him the gift of trust, and he would never quite get over that.

***

He’d actually been feeling alright lately. He had developed a routine of sorts, and it was keeping his mind stimulated and his heart distracted. On weekdays, he worked in the archives on a semi-regular basis (the humans kept working hours of 8am to 5pm, with an hour for lunch, so Aziraphale adopted it for his own. He could have spent days on end down in the archives, but he found that so long away from the sun had a very melancholy effect on him), and on weekends, he attended and aided worship services. Those typically only went until noon or 1pm, and after that, Aziraphale was free to walk the gardens. He and Julien had plans nearly every Saturday, occasionally both Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes he would assist in the gardening, sometimes they would lunch together, playing card games or discussing literature. Aziraphale helped him practice his English, and Julien helped Aziraphale dust off his French. It was lovely, to have someone to talk to again, even if it was only for a few hours each week.

An unexpected Sunday downpour forced them to cancel, about six months into their little arrangement (he chuckled fondly to think of it as such), and Aziraphale spent his evening in his chambers, reading. As with nearly every time he did, he first cracked open the letter he’d stolen from the archives, drinking in Crowley’s words, his looping script, like a man sequestered in a desert. At this point, he knew it word for word, witty joke for witty joke. But it was therapeutic, in a way, to hold the paper his demon’s delicate fingers had once held, take in the words he had poured from his beautiful, vast heart.

After that ritual had been taken care of, and the letter reverently stashed safely away once more, he cracked open his copy of Chuck Palinhuik’s _Fight Club._

It certainly wasn’t his usual fare, far too violent and rude, but he’d taken to reading more heretical, ‘frowned-upon’ works, as a small rebellion in his Vatican isolation. All Heaven had mandated, after all, was that he stay away from Crowley. They hadn’t said anything about how he was to behave while away. And he found, in a rather exhilarating way, this made him feel closer to Crowley—it wasn’t technically against the rules, but it reeked of disobedience.

The church didn’t have a banned book list anymore, the Index had been abolished in 1966 (which may or may not have been a little temptation-tinted blessing by a certain Arrangement-induced demon). But certain texts were ‘allowed’ in the same way attending church in cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and socks with sandals was ‘allowed.’

He was rather enthralled by the book; it exposed the bestial nature of men, while also applauding the need to unleash frustrations, sometimes viciously—perhaps not in an entirely _healthy way,_ per se, but one that was openly consented to. He certainly wouldn’t ever consider such a thing himself, it was barbaric, but... a not inconsiderable part of him was sympathetic to the helplessness, the pent-up rage, all coming to a head and just _snapping. _And having an outlet for it, a group who _hungered _for the pain of it, the ferocity, who united in their collective helplessness, and _did something about it... _he couldn’t deny it appealed to him, currently.

He was rather enraptured by an intense scene when he was startled by a massive thunderclap which had him yelping loudly and spasming with surprise, his book tumbling off the side of the bed with a _clatter._

“Gracious,” he murmured, rising from the bed and approaching his slightly ajar window, where the birds’ nest was. The little chicks were barely visible beneath the hunkered breast of their downy mother, and the overhang above the window was providing just the right amount of cover so as to keep the birds dry from the torrent. Smiling with satisfaction, Aziraphale turned back to his bed...

When it hit him—a pressure against his heart that made his sinuses burn and his ears ring. It manifested in visceral sensations—his skin prickling with the ghost of feather-light fingertips. His lips buzzing pleasantly with a merlot-tinted pressure that made him go dizzy. His nostrils finding that pleasantly and achingly familiar scent of clean smoke and bergamot. His throat tingled with screams or whispers, he wasn’t sure, and he felt off-balance... pulled, heavy and sluggish, in a singular direction.

_No... no, please no. You can’t be here._

Heart racing, he flung a hand out to stabilize himself against the wall, stumbling to lean against it as he waited and listened.

_It can’t be. He wouldn’t... he can’t! This place... this holy place... it would destroy him. Certainly, he wouldn’t... he wouldn’t. Would he?_

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to begin to expand—his true form spilling in every direction beyond the confines of his corporation. Humans wouldn’t see it, he spared a small miracle to ensure it, as the long, writhing tendrils of pure ethereal mass reached like fingers in the dark; reached blindly in search of that which would oppose them, halt them. The only thing in the universe and beyond that would even react to the eldritch limbs that spanned whole miles.

Any uncertainty he was feeling was quashed as, with a heaving gasp, he hit it—that ever familiar wall of occult bricks he’d long ago memorized the texture of. He knew each mountainous angle, every gaping chasm, knew them like the miasma of creaky floorboards and winding cobwebs in his beloved bookshop. Perhaps he knew them better.

_Crowley._

Heaving sobs overtook him very suddenly, and for vastly conflicting reasons. One—Crowley was _here_, in the holiest city on Earth. And he was close enough for Aziraphale to detect his demonic essence, which meant he was _far_ too close to not be in immense pain. Was he getting closer? Was he seeking Aziraphale out?

_Oh God, if he finds me, we have to start over, all over, at the beginning. 11 more years. Please, no... I can’t... I can’t take it..._

The other half of him was relieved, so deeply relieved to be close to Crowley again, to feel that heady weight of his aura close by. Like a blanket in a blizzard, a hug after isolation. And this terrified Aziraphale. Somewhere not so deep down, he _wanted _Crowley to find him. Even if he only held him for moments before they were forced apart again, that one hit, that singular moment reunited... he wanted it. He wanted it _so badly, _the consequences be damned.

But no... because the consequences wouldn’t just be his alone to bear, and... he just couldn’t do that to Crowley.

With a heart wrenching cry, he used a miracle to slam his door shut, his window. It probably startled the poor birds, but he paid them no mind. Instead he used more divine magic to fortify his rooms against evil. And he made it so strong, no force in Hell, not even Lucifer himself, could break it.

He descended into sobs, sliding down the wall to sit below the window, pulling his knees up to his chest and weeping against them.

“I’m sorry... _I’m so sorry, Crowley. Love. My love. _I must. P-please... please go, please find safety. _Please...”_

He reached out once more, pouring all the force of his love into it, and found that familiar essence again. He pressed in against it, held himself steady there—an anchor, a wall to lean on. It stirred, pressing back very weakly for seconds only, before it began to retreat.

The retreat took hours, and every second of it was agony to Aziraphale—like a lifeline had been offered, but was now being forcefully removed, with all the sensations of a dull, serrated blade dragged against flesh. Aziraphale stayed, collapsed on the floor of his chambers, hunkered against his knees, a barrier of epic proportions built around him. And when the last wisps of Crowley’s essence vanished from his awareness, he allowed himself to weep.

It was cathartic, in a soul-stripping, hollow kind of way. He hadn’t really allowed himself to fall apart like this for years, and it had been building up, drip by tiny drip, against the dam, working into the cracks, and weakening him down to a molecular level. It felt... not _good _to let it out, but... necessary. Like all that grief might have festered, molded, poisoned him, if kept inside.

When finally he felt himself thoroughly emptied, cheeks and shirt collar drenched with salty tears, determination fell over him. It took three tries to push to his weak and wobbly legs, but when he did, he vaulted over his bed, scrabbling for the mobile Penny had given him.

His fingers shook as he hurriedly dialed, his breaths coming in faster and faster gulps.

“Hullo?”

“HE WAS JUST HERE!” Aziraphale practically shrieked, unhinged panic making him abandon decorum. “What happened?! Please... _please_ tell me I dreamt it, or that I’ve had some sort of very convincing hallucination. Please, Penny, please _tell me it wasn’t real_...”

A long sigh, followed by a sniffle. A man’s voice asking “it’s him?”

“Aziraphale, I...” Penny started, her voice trembling and making Aziraphale feel guilty for yelling. Not quite guilty enough, however, to do anything about it. Instead, he tapped a toe impatiently as he waited for Penny to collect her thoughts.

She heaved a great sigh, and began.

“I’m so sorry, Aziraphale, I should have phoned. He’s been spiraling for a few days, but I never... I never thought he’d do this...”

“Do what, Penelope?!” Aziraphale demanded, too frustrated to reign in his temper.

“He, er... he took a bunch of drugs. I don’t even know what. Overdosed. I got there just in time, used magic to sober him up...”

Aziraphale felt like he’d been thrust into the icy waters alongside Titanic again; the shock of it forcing him to sink back down onto the floor next to his bed.

“…he was manic, he wouldn’t listen to me... he made some comment about _wanting to discorporate...”_

A pitiful sound rose up from the angel’s throat, one like a mortally wounded animal. _No, Crowley, how could you?! You can’t, you just can’t leave me here alone. I don’t care if it is impermanent. Please don’t do that to me, please..._

“And I... I mentioned you... I thought it would be the shock he needed to snap out of it, but... _ohhh_, it was absolutely the wrong kind of shock.”

She paused to let out a sob, and continued, “he became irate, and before I could do anything... I swear I couldn’t, Aziraphale, I’m only human, and he... he froze me in place, sealed my mouth shut so I couldn’t command him... and he just... _he left, Aziraphale,_ leapt from the balcony and flew away. I thought he’d come back, or... or that he was going somewhere he could find comfort... I didn’t... I didn’t think that...”

She was crying so hard now that she couldn’t keep the sentence together; great, heaving sobs making her gasp for air. The soothing sound of that Arvin fellow came through the line, and despite his monstrous worry for Crowley, Aziraphale made an effort to calm himself.

“Penny,” said Aziraphale, calm and controlled, if a little weak. “Penny, I’m not angry, certainly not at you. I was just... thrown off a bit, please... I... I didn’t mean to upset you. Please take a big breath.”

He waited as she took several, her breathing eventually evening out to a more manageable sniffle.

“Now... he obviously felt helpless enough that he came here, but... he gave you no other indication of where he was going?” he asked.

“He’s not... he’s not still there? He didn’t find you?” she replied, her tone hopeful. He knew why—if Crowley had found him, the whole thing would have started over. And while that thought was terrifying to Aziraphale, he was immortal. In the grand scheme of things, it could be done. It would be agonizing... but he could do it. Such stress, however, could ruin a human life, if sustained for so long. Empathy flared through Aziraphale, and he felt a very painful urge to hug the poor girl.

“No... no, he didn’t. But I could feel him, in the city, close by,” he replied, recalling the encroaching feel of him, the pain he carried. His throat threatened to close up as he considered the kind of harm that must have been done to him, in such close, suffocating contact with the holy city.

“But... I thought he couldn’t go there? That was why he told you to?” Penny asked, clearly confused.

“Can’t is a strong word,” Aziraphale said, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Experiences extreme pain comparable to taking a spa day in holy water whilst on holiday in a church, is more like it. And I don’t... I don’t know how long he was here. I... I got a little lost, in the time, while I...”

His throat failed him again. _While I simultaneously pushed him away and devoured his presence like a starving man._

“I understand, and _I’m so, so sorry, Aziraphale. _But... he was able to leave, right? He got out?”

“Yes, I used every ounce of power I possess to push him away. I’ve never done something more painful, yet more necessary. I don’t know what state he was in, but I do know he was able to leave on his own power. Or a semblance of it. So... that’s good news, I suppose,” he mused, listening to the soothing sound of waning raindrops.

“What... what do we do now?” Penny whispered, sounding hopeless.

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted even further.

“I... I don’t know. I suppose... just wait for him to return. I’ll see if I can reach out to him... spiritually, I mean. I don’t... I don’t think it counts as ‘contacting him,’ but if it does, then I’ve already done it once, so... might as well ensure his wellbeing before the clock starts over.”

Penny made a pained noise that Aziraphale’s heart mimicked.

“Please give me a call if he returns,” he said sadly.

“I will, I swear I will,” Penny replied, voice shaking.

“Thank you, dear girl. For everything you’ve done. I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” he said, not even he was certain if he was lying.

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until this is over.”

“Mm, indeed.”

“And, Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Erm... love you...”

Her words hit him with such immense force, that he had to remove the mobile from his ear so he could clasp a hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs. Her love, like Crowley’s, was pure and unchallenged, even in times of such strife. It was shocking, really; to be loved by a human. Indeed, he’d been loved by many over the millennia, but they had loved his facade, his human persona. They hadn’t known _what he was_, and as such, their love was slightly misguided, misconstrued. But Penny... she knew him for exactly who he was, for all of his flaws and tribulations... and still loved him anyway.

Holding his breath to avoid gasping, he returned the mobile to his ear and whispered, “I love you too, sweet girl.”

As soon as he hung up, he was helpless against the sobs—breathless, violent things that shook him apart and sent him sprawling on the floor next to the bed.


	60. And God Makes Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an Agnostic writes God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ for language.

Michael was stressed. Of all the things she thought she’d be tasked with post-not-Armageddon, mounds and mounds of paperwork were not among them. She was completely inundated. Angels requesting leadership, assignments, anything! Weapons, millions of weapons which were forged for the Great War, now needing to be decommissioned. Angels requesting to keep their weapons ‘just in case.’ And of course, the paperwork regarding the traitor.

Aziraphale.

She seethed at the thought of him, scratching her name onto the document she was working on, the feather-and-gold quill practically hissing as it dragged across the celestial parchment. She snarled as she tossed it into the column of light next to her desk, where it was sucked up into the abyss of Heaven’s scribes. There weren’t many positions she didn’t envy currently, but the scribes was definitely one of them.

Scowling, she snatched another document from the pile and slammed it onto her desk, skimming it.

Her mind was elsewhere. For years now, she hadn’t been able to forget, to _forgive._ She was a warrior angel, not a paper pusher! She should have risen to glory in a shining wave of armor and ivory feathers. She should have rained down vengeance and terror on the sinners and Fallen alike, raising her mighty weapon and crying out the glory of God.

She should have been given the opportunity to finish what she started, 6000 years ago. She’d had that pest Lucifer under her pristine silver heel, blade pressed to his heart. She could have ended it all, obliterated him from existence, and this wouldn’t have been an issue. God’s creation would never have been tempted by that filthy fallen one, Crowley, and they would have flourished in their garden. All would have been, on Earth, as it was in Heaven.

But no. God had to pull the rug from beneath those rebellious, lie-spitting, unworthy angels. Toss them into a pit to think on what they’d done.

She couldn’t deny, at first she’d admired the brutality of it; destruction was too quick, too easy. But living? Living with the filthy knowledge of what they were, living in a putrid, writhing cesspit that mirrored their detestable souls? It was genius. At first.

But Michael had grown weary of the decision over time. Why have two wars, anyway? If you knew how it was all going to play out when you cast the rebels out, what was the point? If the plan was always for Heaven to fight Hell again, to have Heaven _triumph_, then why put it off? They should have blotted out the putrefaction in the first battle and been done with it.

But she never questioned. If this was the way God wanted it, this would be the way. And there certainly was no harm in triumphing twice. At the very least, it would prove who was superior, once and for all, with incontestable certainty.

But now? No one triumphed. No one was superior. Everything just... went on. What was the point of it all? If not to look forward to the day they would battle their former brethren, then... what was the point of angels anyway? Why were they still here? Was their only purpose to shepherd the risen souls of the righteous humans? Why? What was so incredible about humans? What was so worth collecting indefinitely? And did Heaven have a capacity? Now that no end was in sight, could they even continue to take souls for eternity? Was that what the angels were here for? To oversee the expansion of Paradise? And if so, who saw to that? Would they be told by God, or would they just find themselves full up and placing human souls in a waiting room while the angels scrambled to find room for them?

“_Eerrrghhhhh_,” she groaned, signing yet another document and tossing it into the column.

She never questioned. Before. But they were beginning to pile up, and no one had spoken to God, not even the Metatron, since the failed apocalypse. Michael herself hadn’t even heard from God since humanity’s ninth age.

They had been left, it seemed, to their own devices. And Michael was trying to glean Her wishes as best she could. She used all the knowledge and past experience at her disposal, as well as the input of all six of the other archangels, to decide on a best course of action. She’d thought, for the last several eons, that it was what God wanted. This was _still _what God wanted... surely.

Michael startled as a soft bell rang through her office and a gilded correspondence fluttered to the surface of her desk. She used to love that sound. Now it was like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh jolly,” she murmured in a deadpan. “More to do.”

Using the beautiful silver letter opener Gabriel had gifted to her after their decisive victory at Sodom and Gamorrah, she sliced into the soft, dense wax seal, hardly noting the indentation. It really didn’t matter who it was from.

She unrolled the scroll, smoothing it out to lay flat before her, and took in the very short inscription.

_You are requested in the council hall at once. Come alone, if you please. Sensitive matters are to be attended to._

It was unsigned. A curious thing, but not uncommon. More common these days, actually, given that most angels knew that, if they signed their name, Michael may decide they weren’t worth her time, and delegate the task. She saw it as efficient, others saw it as crass. All a matter of perspective, she always said.

She grinned to herself, placing the letter-opening knife on its intricately carved base, and rose from her chair.

The short jaunt from her office to the council was actually a welcome relief from the monotonous, humdrum repetition of reading and signing documents, surrounded by the same four white walls.

Not that she minded the white walls. Certainly not.

With a firm tug to her waistcoat, Michael entered the council hall, and found it completely empty.

With a put-upon sigh and a roll of her eyes, Michael peered about the circle of throne-like chairs, the high, Grecian pillars, looking for anyone who could be lurking. Well... not lurking. Angels did not _lurk._ They waited elegantly, or at the very least _lingered._

“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing around the unadorned walls. “I was summoned, but I am incredibly busy at the moment, so if you _don’t mind_, I’ll see you now, or I will return to it...” she finished curtly.

When no reply was heard, she did a precise 180°, and headed for the ornate council doors...

Which were now closed. _Huh._ _I don’t recall closing those..._

**“Hello Michael.”**

It was as if her heart, her soul, the fibers of her truest form had been struck. No, not struck. Held, cradled, _cherished._ Her wings tore from the hidden realm, her knees hit the cool tile. Her breath left her, the useless stuff, and tears blossomed in her eyes. She felt loved, so very loved that she wanted to scream, to leap, to fly. Her feathers itches with it, her skin crawled, her mind buzzed. But beneath it began to bud a rising terror.

_Have I done something wrong? I had begun to question... I’m sorry! I never spoke these doubts, I swear it, I only thought them! I repent, Lord, I do! I was just so lost after the failed apocalypse, I needed your guidance, I..._

**“Be at peace, Michael. I am not here to address those pesky thoughts of yours. Not all of them, anyway...”**

Michael did not relax. “I... er...” she wiped her face of those embarrassing tears.

**“Rise, child. And be not afraid...”**

Michael barked a frantic laugh at the joke, rising to her feet and folding her wings.

The empty room suddenly glowed bright white, so luminescent that Michael had to close her eyes.

And when she opened them, she found herself on Earth, on a grimy street surrounded my humans who did not seem to see her. In fact, she was certain they did not, as a few walked _through her._

Before her stood a high, red bus, with people piling on and paying their fare. They scurried like mice, bumping into one another and grumbling unhappily. Michael had to put effort into not recoiling.

“Why...”

**“Wait and see, child.”**

Michael was silent for a long time. She saw nothing but small humans and their small lives, oozing with contempt and sin—each one of them residing on a scale from the nearly-righteous to the downright reprehensible.

Upon her came a man, heading for the bus. He fished in his pockets for the fare, his face twisting with apprehension.

He paused just feet from the vehicle, his eyes caught by something behind Michael. She turned to follow his gaze.

Against an adjacent building was a thin, sallow man in ratty clothes and no shoes. He sat upon a torn and dirty sleeping bag, a small, equally torn and dirty bag of belongings at his side. Propped in front of him was a piece of cardboard that read “anything helps,” and he wore a look of such defeated hopelessness that Michael felt more tears begin to brim.

The man at the bus pursed his lips, straightened, and walked forward to place his bus fare in the other man’s hand.

**“That man is on his way to a very important job interview. He desperately needs that job. He’s been out of work for months, and funds are running low. He and his wife have been cooking meals only for their children, and eating canned soup for themselves.”**

Michael swallowed, watching as the two men smiled sadly at one another, and the giver turned away to begin walking.

**“He will walk to his interview now. That was all he had. He may not make it in time.”**

Michael opened her mouth to speak, but the light returned, and she was forced to cringe back from it.

She found herself standing in a mess hall of some kind... no, a _cafeteria_, for school children.

A lone girl stood with her tray of foodstuffs, looking over the sea of bustling, filled tables with terror in her eyes. Her skirt did not match her shirt, and her shoes were dirty.

“I heard she plays in the dirt like a boy,” another girl said from her table, much too close to not be heard.

“I heard her dad buys her clothes. See how they don’t match? Who wears stripes with polka dots?”

The young girl’s lips began to tremble, and she began to shuffle out of the cafeteria, seemingly to eat alone in the halls. Michael wished to smite those cruel children with a fierceness that surprised her. Who made fun of clothes? Humans weren’t even meant to wear them in the first place.

“I think she looks interesting. Much more than you lot. Missy! Come and sit with me, there’s room here!”

The girl perked up, spinning so fast her carton of milk tumbled from her tray. The other girl who’d spoken bent and retrieved it for her, and looped their arms together.

“Better yet, let’s lunch outside. The trees are better company anyway.”

**“That girl has just broken with her circle of friends. It’s a very difficult thing, at such a delicate age. But she did it anyway, because she didn’t like how her friends were acting towards another. She may be ridiculed herself, now. She may be shunned and disrespected, just like the one she saved.”**

“My lord, I don’t under—“

The light returned, and Michael just sighed, allowing herself to be cut off and deposited in an office building. Aside from the smoke gray color, it almost resembled Heaven.

Before her stood a stunningly beautiful woman, her skin the color of charcoal, her eyes like rich chocolate. She wore the garb of modern professionals—a delicate silk blouse, pencil skirt, and heels that resembled Michael’s favorite letter-opener.

It was clear this was the end of a conversation with a man—an older, white-haired man who wore a suit and an air of superiority. He was heading to the woman’s office door, preparing to leave, when he turned back to face her.

“Good work, Akara, absolutely stunning. Our hard work has paid off! Keep wearing tight little numbers like that, and you just might climb your way to the top! Of the hierarchy, I mean. But you can climb to my top too, sweetheart!”

Michael felt herself seethe with boiling rage. Judging by the amount of files and work boards surrounding this young woman, she was incredibly hard-working. But she was being reduced to the vessel she wore, which was beyond the control of humans. To be narrowed down to _what one is, what one looks like..._ it made Michael’s ears burn hot.

The man exited the room with a boisterous laugh, and the young woman yanked her desk phone out of the cradle.

“Get me HR, please.”

**“This young woman is a prodigy in her field, but has had to fight and claw and scrape to get where she is. She’s just made a very important presentation. Everything hangs on this. The funding for her vision, the staffing, all of it. If it goes well, she could have everything she’s ever wanted. And that man is part of the board that would get her there.**

**She’s just decided to risk it all. To stand up for herself and all others like her in her profession. Speaking up could be dangerous. It could jeopardize everything she’s worked for. But she doesn’t care. It’s not just her that she’s thinking of. It’s the countless others that will come after her, the little ones sitting at home thinking it can’t be done by someone like her. She might be believed. She might not. But she’s decided it’s worth it either way.”**

“My lord, please, I see them. I’ve always seen them. But I don’t understand why you are showing me these things...”

**“Come. I have another.”**

The white light flared again, and Michael found herself on the pulpit of a church. It was a beautiful, grand church, with high, arched ceilings, and marvelous stained glass windows, several stories high. The pews were well cared for, but clearly well-used—their varnish dull and hazy. It was empty, save one.

A young woman of probably thirty was approaching the pulpit, her eyes somber and grave. She looked slightly afraid, but pressed on, coming to the steps of the pulpit and kneeling.

She sighed, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes.

“Hello. It’s me. I mean... you know it’s me, you know all of us, I suppose. Sorry, bit out of practice. I’ve never been religious. But I suppose you know that too...”

The girl took another empowering breath, and trudged on.

“I don’t know if you listen to the likes of me, witch and all. My soul is promised to er... to... _Lucifer...”_

She whispered the name and looked around, as if expecting to be jumped just for speaking it in a church. Satisfied that she wasn’t, after a time, she continued.

“But I don’t come to you regarding my own soul, so perhaps... you can make an exception?”

She settled back into position, pressing out a breath and muttering “_here goes.”_

Instead of speaking, she was quiet, and for a very long time. So long, in fact, that Michael began to wonder if this little vision, this moment in time that God had deigned to show her, had been frozen or stalled.

But then the girl began weeping softly, trying desperately to subdue it. She was nearly silent, and if not for the tremors shaking her shoulders, Michael might not have noticed. She took a step forward, aching to rest a hand on the girl’s shoulder, to make her presence known.

“He’s not evil,” the girl said in a broken whisper. “I don’t claim to know him like you did, and I don’t claim to doubt your decision to cast him out. Perhaps he did deserve it... back then. I don’t know, and I never will. But I do know him _now...”_

The girl raised her bowed head and gave the wood-carved sculpture of Jesus on the cross a look of such intense determination, her brows set hard and unyielding and her tears slowing to a stop, that Michael quickly retreated those few steps she’d taken.

“And he’s _good!_ He wants nothing but to love and to be loved. He cares for humanity, you must know this! He betrayed Hell for us, he risked his life and love for us, he nearly _died_, permanently, for us! Sure, he’s mischievous and wily, but never _cruel._ He’s done nothing in the years I’ve known him other than show me exactly what love is. And he’s worked _so hard! _They call it a labor, love, but it’s so effortless to him! It makes me wonder how, _how_ could he have ever been not enough for you?!”

The girl paused, shaking her head.

“But I am not here to cast blame or doubt. I’m here... I’m here to beg forgiveness. Not the capital Forgiveness; the kind that would see his feathers turn white and his soul ascend. I don’t even think he wants that, would even accept it. He’d probably do something damning out of spite.

“But I am asking you to let him go. Let them _both _go. I don’t blame your angels for being angry, I really don’t. If I’d worked for something my whole life and seen it ripped from my hands, I’d be angry too! But at a certain point, we _must_ move on! We must cap our anger, seal it away where we can use it, and not vice versa.”

The girl paused again, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

“He’s in so much pain,” she said, voice unsteady. “And I tried to help him. You gave me the recourses I needed. You gave me an analytical mind, an open heart. You gave me the knowledge to cast this Trinity, even if it stole my soul away from you. And it still wasn’t enough. Why? Why must they continue to suffer, why must he?! Was the Fall not enough? Here on Earth, we have something called cruel and unusual punishment. It means the punishment fits the crime. No more, no less. His punishment fit his crime, I’m assuming. So continuing to torture him is cruel! He doesn’t want to be a demon anymore, he doesn’t want to spread temptation and sin! All he wants is that angel you gave him, and for... for _someone’s _sake, _please give it to him!_ I don’t care if they betrayed you, betrayed your plan! Even if they did, which I don’t suspect they did, what’s done is done! Either... destroy them, or cut the ties, for fuck’s sake, and _get off your bloody high horse!”_

Michael stopped breathing; waited for the girl to be struck by a mysterious case of indoor-lightning. When nothing came, the girl sighed.

“Sorry. Got a bit carried away. Let me make this simple. I think there’s supposed to be a best practice for this whole... _praying_ business.”

The girl re-situated, closed her eyes, and brought her clasped hands up in front of her heart.

“Dear God,

Please help the demon Crowley, and the angel Aziraphale. Please let them be happy, be together. Please, I beg you. I love them. And they love each other. Please see it, please recognize it for the enigma it is. I can feel it, with the incredible gift you gave me upon birth, and it has shaken me to my core. Every breath they take, they take for each other. Every step, for millennia, has been toward one another. Please, God. Please let them be happy. I think they’ve earned it.

Amen.”

Stunned into silence, Michael watched as the girl nodded, lowered her hands, and stood. She looked to the cross one last time, and turned to walk down the aisle, never looking back.

**“Miracles, Michael. These things were miracles which you, nor I, nor any other celestial had anything to do with. A man risks everything to be kind to a stranger. A child breaks with her group, walks away from their cruelty, even though it means said cruelty will now also fall on her. A woman forges the way for others, even though it may come at her own sacrifice...**

**“And a _human_... prays for _a demon._ _Loves a demon. _Sees the worth in his heart and not the wickedness in his title. And she prays. Prays to a God she believes both him and herself to be discarded by,** **for _his wellbeing._ I have never seen its like, Michael. Me. _God_. With all my power, all my sight, all my knowledge. I have never seen a human pray for a demon. And I shan’t again. At least... as things stand now.”**

Michael inhaled, turning to look up at the cross.

“What do you wish of me, Lord?” she asked patiently.

**“What do _you_ wish of you, Michael?”**

A pang of annoyance flared through her and, knowing God was aware of it, she sighed.

“Do you wish me to end the trial of the angel Aziraphale?” she tried again, obediently.

God sighed then, the sound like a hurricane in the stillness, and Michael’s spine went cold.

**“Walk with me, child.”**

Michael wasn’t sure how she was supposed to walk with someone she could not see, but she began taking steps regardless—across the pulpit, down the stairs, and down the aisle.

**“What do _you_ want, Michael?”**

Michael considered as the sunshine hit her. She meandered into the church’s meager garden, admiring the lush ferns, the vibrant flowers.

“I... I want to do my duty, Lord. Fulfill your wishes and carry out your commands. I am your warrior, O Lord, and I will humbly do all that you ask.”

**“Hm. Very well-practiced, I commend it. But what do you _really _want, my child? Speak freely, there is no wrong answer.”**

Michael doubted that. She’d put her own signature on plenty of wrong answers.

“I...” she gulped, fear pooling in her gut. “I want to have a purpose again, Lord. I want to feel the motivation, the glory that I felt in the days of old. I... want to spread your love, I want to triumph over the evil and be a harbinger of good. I want to be useful to you, to see a light in all this chaos...”

**“Do you remember the angel you were? Before the rebellion, I mean?”**

“Of course, Lord.”

**“I made you a healer, Michael. And you were _brilliant_. You soothed the burns from the star-makers hands, you mended broken feathers. And when the time came, and rebels began whispering, you rose up as both a leader and a healer. You were fierce and protective of those who were hurt, you struck down those who would dole out suffering. And I thought to myself... who better? Who better to be my warrior, than one who detests pain, one who seeks to end it, and not see it spread.**

**“You were... _you are_ my warrior, Michael, and I am proud to say so.”**

Tears sprung to Michael’s eyes to hear it.

**“It saddens me to see that you have become lost. But this was the price I paid when I doled out free will. My creations will have to _choose_, and sometimes they will choose _wrong...”_**

Michael’s heart stopped, and she dropped to her knees on the soft grass.

“What is it? What have I done, my Lord, please tell me? I only wish t—”

**“Hush, child, and rise. You have done nothing wrong. Well... nothing terribly wrong.”**

The clarification did not inspire confidence.

**“You love me and you have sought to do as you thought I wanted. And I have remained quiet because I wanted to _let you._ I have wanted to let _all of you._ And I still do. Close your eyes, child.”**

Michael did as she was bade.

**“Now... your _other eyes_. Open them.”**

Michael exhaled, reaching out to the massive expanse of her true form, the eyes of sight, of intuition, of emotion, of time. They did not have rods and cones like a human eye, they did not have color. They had only tendrils of knowledge which stretched far into the past, the present, the future. With them, she could see the humans on Earth, their lives connected through lines of pure ethereal mass. She could see the angels in Heaven, their paths marked with light. She could see the demons in Hell, their own paths marked with something akin to black light—a negative glow that shined nonetheless.

**“Now look, Michael. Look, and listen.”**

Michael did not know what she was supposed to look for, listen to. If she welcomed it all, it would overwhelm her—the prayers of billions of humans, the thoughts and words of angels and demons alike. So she focused on the girl, the witch. The lines of connection spewed from her, from the spot in the church where she’d knelt. Hundreds of humans, hundreds of lives. But a few lines were brighter than the others. Two to be exact.

Michael followed them, her hundreds of eyes noting points along the lines that roiled with information. A bookshop, a car, a garden, a wall. Two hands, joined in partnership.

Finally, she came to a halt at the slowly encroaching end of them, watched and listened.

From one, she could hear the sound of the ocean, a gentle breeze, the rustle of curtains. From the other, the turning of pages, the hymns of priests and the songs of baby Swifts, as they awaited a worm from the beak of their mother. And from both, she noted soft but desperate sobs—soul-deep and aching. The lines throbbed with light, with love. Lord, it was overwhelming, intoxicating. She’d never seen such love. It carved the very path for these lines, reached out toward her many searching eyes. It screamed to be heard, cried out to be made whole. It mirrored the great celestial eruption that split the Heavens when God made the Earth.

Gasping, Michael pulled back, abruptly finding herself back in her tiny, cramped corporation, still kneeling on the church green. Cool tears were flowing down her heated cheeks, and her hands shook with the timber of her shattered heart.

“Lord... what have I done?!” she gasped, burying her face in her hands and weeping.

She felt a weight on her shoulder, a weight like whole planets, a warmth like exploding stars.

**“Oh, Michael. You have done nothing that can’t be healed, child. Remember. Remember what you are.”**

Michael shoved to her feet, opening her wings so fast they tossed a few feathers.

“I need to call a meeting of the council.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for my use of deus ex machina here, but I'm #notsorry. I simply couldn't torture our boys any longer. Also, I'd like to think there is redemption in it even for the most cruel of angels, if only they could see past their petty self-interest.
> 
> So I Christmas Carol'd Michael.


	61. Trial's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen, but with some minor depiction of depression.
> 
> Sorry it's so short, I'll update again soon!

Aziraphale’s previous good mood was gone—fluttered out the window with the Swifts, never to return to the nest. He’d tried to reach out to Crowley with his aura, but wherever the demon was, he was beyond Aziraphale’s reach. He called Penny every morning to ask if Crowley had returned, and every morning he received an aggrieved “no.” It was slowly becoming his new routine. His only routine.

Walking the gardens no longer brought him joy, brought him anything but heartache for his dear demon. Working in the archives was no longer an effective distraction, as every single page seemed a waste of his time, every word a sad, pathetic stand-in for something so otherworldly. He didn’t even find joy in reading, as he found himself reaching unconsciously with his free hand for the body that always lay beside him.

He stayed in his chambers for days on end, sometimes crying for those whole days, or simply staring, unblinking, at a wall.

Julien stopped by, voicing his worry from the other side of the locked door, but Aziraphale usually talked him away. On a few occasions, he couldn’t muster the energy to speak, so he simply miracled the lad elsewhere.

He was beginning to understand Crowley’s penchant for moping, for anxiety, for hopelessness. It made him wonder how many times in the course of human history the poor demon had felt like this—scared and in anguish, all the while knowing he had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, because Aziraphale was always turning him away, _pushing_ him away. How many times had Crowley lay awake, petrified with any number of torments dangling over his head, wishing he only had the _one_ thing denied to him—love?

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he spent holed up in his chambers. It could have been days, weeks, months. The daily phone calls to Penny were no good indication; they had started to blend together after the tenth repetition—“has he returned? No, I’m sorry.”

And Aziraphale had, in the past, kept a relatively regular eating schedule, had even learned to recognize pangs of something similar to hunger when he’d gone too long. It, of course, wasn’t hunger, he couldn’t be hungry, but... it was something like it. Regularly scheduled cravings, perhaps.

And those had come and gone in ebbing waves too many times that they eventually gave up. The thought of tea made him nauseous, the idea of any form of sustenance held no temptation. He craved only one thing, now.

Eventually, Julien became more persistent, until one day, he rapped his knuckles on the old oak door, and proclaimed,

“Mr. Fell! I worry about you, and I insist you come out!”

“Please leave me be, Julien,” Aziraphale replied, deadpan, as he rolled over on his bed to face the wall. He’d long since noted and categorized every dip, dent, and crack in that wall, but out of sheer spite, he began doing it again.

“I will stand here and knock on your door every five minutes until you come out,” Julien replied, oddly upbeat, following it with a quick, melodic set of taps on the door. “I work in gardening, sir, I have many patience.”

Aziraphale naturally formulated a few rebuttals—“they’ll notice your absence,” “the garden will begin to spoil,” “wouldn’t you rather spend this time with your family?”

But the energy, the interest just wasn’t there. With a great sigh, he simply closed his eyes. Perhaps he would fall asleep. Perhaps he would sleep until Julien gave up. Perhaps he would sleep for a hundred years.

Aziraphale had always counted himself resilient when it came to minor annoyances, after all, his favorite thing _on Earth _was basically an overflowing occult potato sack of minor annoyances.

But, if said potato sack were present, he’d probably have reminded Aziraphale that he almost _always _caved when pestered enough. It was why the Earth was still here to begin with.

So, after 2 hours and thirty-six minutes, and precisely thirty-one different knocks to his door (he was fairly certain the lad was working through Mozart’s symphonies, in 5-note increments), Aziraphale heaved a put-upon sigh, swung his legs off the bed dramatically, and shuffled to the door. He wrenched it open none too gently, and fixed a very surprised gardener in a very stern face.

“Do you intend to annoy me until I come out?” he grumbled.

Julien smiled wide, nodding with enthusiasm. “Yes. Is it working?”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny the man’s tenacity and devotion. That, and his warm smile was a welcome sight Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed he had missed so dearly.

He barked a quick laugh, sighing again as he let his shoulders fall in surrender.

“Alright, but I don’t wish to talk about it,” he said, stepping away from the door and grabbing his overcoat.

“Is fine, sir. We don’t have to talk at all. Just... walk with me for a while?”

The man turned, offering his elbow proudly and holding his chin up in victory. It actually resembled a certain someone whose hours of pleading, prodding, and poking had eventually paid off.

Julien led them, where else, but the gardens. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the sight, but he valiantly fought the urge to hurry back to his room and burrow beneath the covers.

“Such lovely weather, yes?” Julien asked, blinking rapidly in the beating sun.

Aziraphale nodded, unable to deny that the warmth on his skin, the bright, natural light, the scent of stirred earth and flowering greenery—it all lifted his spirits, just a little.

Julien lead him to their usual spot by the fountain of St. Theresa, and deposited Aziraphale on the stone basin surrounding it.

“My daughter, she start primary school next week,” Julien said simply, barely disguising his attempt to break down Aziraphale’s very fortified walls.

“She is scared, she tells me. ‘What if no one like me,’ she asks. And I do not know how to answer this...?”

It was an obvious ploy—an attempt at just getting Aziraphale talking, and he knew it. But, he’d be damned if he was going to be rude.

With a sigh and a half-hearted shrug, he replied, “well, I suppose... I suppose it’s entirely possible. People are funny like that. They dislike things they’ve no reason to. But...”

He looked up finally, finding Julien’s worried and imploring eyes. “The bird that never leaps from the nest will only ever know the same brown twigs, the same two birds. The fall...”

He paused, needing to clear his throat on the word.

“The fall may seem scary, at first, but... the _flight..._ the flight, in all its ups and downs... it’s worth it in the end.”

Julien looked stricken for a moment, his face awed and shocked, before he smiled dopily and took a seat next to Aziraphale.

“I will tell her this!” he said excitedly, pulling a ziplock baggie of cubed cheeses from his jacket pocket and offering it up.

Unwilling to offend, Aziraphale nodded graciously, and took one.

“Although her favorite bird is the penguin, so she may have a reply I am not prepared for!” Julien said with a laugh, and Aziraphale was helpless to do anything but copy it.

He couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel a little better—the warmth of the sun, the stimulation of the conversation, however menial it was, and the taste of the delicate Parmesan crumbling on his tongue... it did spark a tiny match of joy in his heart. He knew it would burn out, and sooner rather than later, but for now... he was prepared to let it burn.

Which was why it hit him like a punch to the gut when another angelic presence entered his awareness.

Panic began to set in as he peered around frantically—had he done something wrong? Did Crowley’s presence here... whenever it was... did it mean he’d technically broken the requirements of his final trial? Were they here to notify him that the eleven years was beginning anew?!

He was practically hyperventilating by the time she appeared before him—the Archangel Michael, in a pristine cream-colored pants suit and cloud-blue cravat. She looked elegant, as always, but Aziraphale found himself unable to meet her eyes—fear making him feel feeble and obedient.

“Hello, there,” she said kindly, and Aziraphale was unable to ascertain if it was genuine, or forced faux-kindness. “Would you mind terribly if had a private word with your companion?” she asked of Julien.

Julien first looked to Aziraphale, giving him a questioning gaze that said “do you _want _to speak with her?” Aziraphale’s heart thumped faster at the display of protectiveness, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Very well. I will be in the gardens, if you need me. Good day, my friend. I’m glad you came out with me.”

Julien rested a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, squeezed it once, and disappeared into the jungle of plants.

For a tense moment, Michael only stood there, stiff as stone, looking at the gravel at Aziraphale’s feet.

“M-may I join you, Aziraphale?” she asked, and he could have sworn she was actually entreating about it, actually cared if his answer was no.

He nodded again, a lump in his throat preventing any words.

Michael took several long, flowing steps forward, spinning in a muted military manner and depositing herself on the stone, several feet away from Aziraphale. It felt, somehow, like respectful distance. Heaven had never offered him such a thing before, so he finally looked up at her, knowing his terror was likely as plain as the blue in his eyes.

“I, er,” she started, half-turning to face the fountain and run a spindle-like finger delicately over the rippling surface. She watched with fascination as the ripples reacted to her interference, sending new, opposite ripples back toward the statue of St. Theresa. “How... how are you, Aziraphale?”

She might have fared better if she’d knee’d him in the groin. Michael, nor Heaven itself, had ever given a _damn_ about how he was feeling.

Rage began to boil in the pit of his stomach. Now they cared? _Now they ask?!_

Narrowing his eyes at her, he gave her the truth.

“Broken, if you must know,” he said coldly, reveling in the way she flinched. “Broken, sad, betrayed, lonely, hopeless, and... and...”

His throat closed up and tears threatened to swell in his eyes, the traitorous things, so he buried his face in his hands.

“And abandoned,” he mumbled into his palms, his cheeks heating with grief and embarrassment.

He felt the sizzle of a miracle in the air, and he lifted his head to inspect.

In Michael’s hand, there was now a flawless scroll, familiar and recognizable in its divinity, and it was sealed with scarlet wax, the sigil of the seven archangels pressed into it.

With a convulsive gulp, he reached for it, pausing before he took it to give Michael a weary, questioning glance.

“Yes, it’s for you,” she said, jutting it toward him.

Hand shaking, he took it. Terror gripped him, but so did confusion. It seemed very much like the final trial was starting over, and they were simply delivering the news in the most predictably cruel way possible. But Michael... her demeanor was off. There was something resolved about her—a calmness that Aziraphale had never, not in 6000 years, seen in her.

He slid his hand below the wax, breaking it open and slowly unrolling the parchment.

_We, the undersigned, do hereby agree to the following: the angel Aziraphale is hereby relieved of his duty and obligation to Heaven, insomuch as any orders may pertain to him. He is still held to the tenets of divine law and is expected to behave as an agent of Heaven, if only for the sake of appearances._

_The angel Aziraphale is also forthwith, and upon reception of this correspondence, released from any and all trials..._

He cried out, leaping to his feet, dropping the scroll, and covering his mouth with a badly trembling hand. He looked to Michael for clarification, and she smiled sadly and stood to face him.

She bent to retrieve the letter, brushing it off gently and handing it back to him.

“Keep reading, please,” she said, her own voice now rocky.

He took it, hands trembling horribly as he unrolled it again.

_... released from any and all trials set upon him by this council. We cannot atone for the hardship we have caused. But we can bring an end to it, and begin healing the wounds of our actions._

Beneath were all seven sigils of the archangels.

Aziraphale’s first thought was that he was dreaming—he was still in bed in his chambers, Julien had not come to him, they hadn’t walked through the gardens, and this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Heaven, even when they knew they were wrong, never rescinded their mandates. Never.

Viciously confused, he looked up to Michael, while at the same time pinching his own forearm in an effort to wake himself.

She caught the movement, smiling bitterly before covering Aziraphale’s hand with her own.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry. I could not see, becauseI was looking with my eyes. But I can see now. As the letter I wrote said, I cannot atone for the pain I’ve caused you. I can only hope that it heals. And that begins with you, going home, right now.”

He wanted to believe it, he really did. But doubt and fear from past failures reminded him that ‘home,’ according to Heaven, was not here.

“You... you mean...” he stuttered, his tongue feeling like a lead pipe.

“London, Aziraphale. I mean London. Or... wherever you wish to call home, here on Earth. You are free to go.”

A massive sob erupted from his throat as relief flooded through him. Home... _Crowley... home!_

“But! Before you do, erm... I need you to sign that. To prove you received it... you know how Heaven is. God forbid we not have a paper trail... er... pardon the turn of phrase...”

Aziraphale threw himself at her, wrapping her in the tightest... well, second tightest hug he’d ever given. She stood like a board, awkwardly patting his back twice with a single hand.

He shoved away from her, perhaps too hard, but he was much too giddy to care as he miracled up his feather quill and promptly dropped it.

“Bother,” he cursed, bending to retrieve it quickly as he hurried to the fountain’s stone half wall, slammed the parchment down on it, and scribbled his name almost illegibly.

“Go on, then,” Michael said, taking the scroll, rolling it up pristinely, and waving it away into the ether. She gave him a smile then, one he didn’t think he’d ever seen on her—a happy one.

“Thank you! Thank you, Michael, thank... oh, thank God! I’ll, er, be seeing you. Actually I won’t! Fancy that?!” he nearly shouted, overjoyed to the point of feverish.

For a moment he was overwhelmed by the thought of returning to his chamber, packing his things, hailing a cab, and going to the airport.

“Hm,” he said, realizing that he was totally prepared to abandon all of it. He could get a new mobile. He could get new books. Hell, he could even get new/old clothes! The only thing he was loathe to leave behind was the letter Crowley had written, but... what were the demon’s words, when he could have the _demon himself?!_

He could be holding him by sundown, kissing his lips within minutes, drinking with him and waxing poetic.

“Hm. Bugger it,” he said, waving a hand and willing himself back to Mayfair, London.

A few meters away, Julien the gardener looked up just in time to watch his friend vanish into thin air, the sun catching on the void where he’d just been, and Julien _swore,_ for just the briefest of moments, that he saw two giant, pure-white wings in the sun spire silhouette left in his absence.

He smiled.

“L’ange trouve son sourire.”


	62. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for some description of injury.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, stumbling with the shock of going from a garden in sunny Rome to a dark, modern flat in Mayfair. He could physically feel the drain on his resources—he was abstractly aware that he’d just massively depleted his abilities, and that, if he needed to use them again, he’d have to reach further, scrape the bottom of the barrel.

But that could be addressed later.

“Crowley!” he cried into the sleek, barren flat, his shrill and panicky voice reverberating off of every slate and chrome surface. He ran through the flat like a madman, checking every room and hallway. He hadn’t expected Crowley to be here, since Penny hadn’t called, but he had to check.

_Penny._

She shrieked as Aziraphale materialized into her living room, another intense drain of his powers making his vision begin to go fuzzy at the edges.

“Is he here?” he asked, peering around her living room and finding only a terrified witch, her equally terrified boyfriend, and a spilled bowl of crisps littering the area rug.

“Aziraphale?!” Penny practically yelled, leaping to her feet, but he was already on the move.

He methodically, if a little wildly, began speeding through her home and calling Crowley’s name. She followed, barraging him with a litany of questions.

“What are you doing back here, you can’t be back here?! Why... why are you here, did something happen? Do you know something I don’t know?! What about the trial, does it start over?! Aziraphale! _Aziraphale, talk to me, please!”_

Given that she was trying to grab him and halt his search of her house, which now found him in the upstairs guest bedroom that Crowley had been staying in (he could register that alluring scent of his mild cologne and pomade), he decided to employ a modicum of focus to stopping her.

“Released,” he barked, bodily walking past her and checking the master bedroom. “Have to find him...”

“Well, he’s not here, you would have been the first person I told, Azira—“

Next came the bookshop, specifically the back room. He groaned as the rapid-fire series of hefty miracles clearly took their toll; the fuzziness in his vision closing in and going black, his sense of balance terribly thrown off. He stumbled again, harder this time, barely catching himself with a palm thrown out against his desk. He shook his head in an effort to rid himself of the vertigo, and when it didn’t die down, he decided to push through it—focusing on single points as he lurched through the shop in search of his love.

“C-Crowley, please,” he squeaked, his voice weak and desperate. “Please, where are you?”

He did a complete tour of the shop, starting with the back room and meandering through each and every bookshelf, up the stairs to the flat, and eventually back down to the back room.

“Please, dear, _where are you...”_ he begged, beginning to hyperventilate with panic. His eyes scanned over mementos—the couch where the demon sat, often napped. The little table where they sometimes sat, sipping tea and playing chess. The hearth where Crowley had sat before the fire, opening his Christmas gift.

His gift._ Of course._

This time the fuzziness completely closed in, his ears ringing as he felt himself collapse. He felt no impact, only a distant _thump_ and a groan.

The vertigo was setting in with a vengeance—even with his eyes closed, Aziraphale felt like he was spiraling down from the Heavens, one wing winched in and the other fully extended, fighting a losing battle against centrifugal force and gravity, wind patterns and air pockets.

He lay still for a moment, concentrating on breathing in deeply, holding it, and releasing it. And, after an indiscriminate amount of time, the spinning began to subside, and he was able to open his eyes and focus.

He was lying on the gravel walkway, his cheek pressed into the tiny rocks. Before him was the South Downs cottage, but something was horribly, monstrously wrong.

The whole place was enveloped in a darkness—not like a singular storm cloud, but like concentrated _midnight._ Like a bubble of starless, lightless void was hovering around the cottage.

And the way it felt... it felt like concentrated atrocity—the way Aziraphale had felt walking away from London after it burned, the way the still, eerie Atlantic water had felt on a cold night in 1912. It felt like the Tadfield airbase as it sat, suspended between obliteration and absolution.

Aziraphale’s heart rebelled at the proximity of something so overwhelmingly _negative._ It was just _empty space—_hopeless, loveless, careless, pitiless. A saturation of such pure, devoid existence, that it physically hurt.

With a grunt, he pushed to his wobbly legs, shuffling toward the door, feeling with every difficult step like he was walking into the eye of a hurricane. His heart twisted as he reached the door, finding a beautiful plaque to the left which read, in elegant script, _Eden._

Eden Cottage. How fitting.

With tears brimming in his eyes, he reached up to caress the letters, and a flash of images and sound assaulted him.

_A dark figure, completely bereft, reaching out to carve the letters with a hand that flowed with unholy power. No, not unholy power... desperate power. Power summoned from the ether of a forlorn, tragic heart that was lost and floating in its own sea of aimlessness._

“Oh God, _Crowley_...” Aziraphale whined, pushing the slightly ajar door open.

In the early 1990s, Aziraphale had been hooked by the National Geographic craze. And while it was true, magazines never interested him like books did, the National Geograhics hit all of his favorite buttons—they were collectible, with numerous, specialty covers, they were informative, and he could turn around and sell them without the same guilt and sadness he felt when parting with his precious books. For a brief time, he’d dedicated a shelving unit in the shop to magazines, but the only one he ever stocked had been Nat Geo. The single-serving nature of their information appealed to him, and in one particular issue, he’d learned about animal defense mechanisms. He’d, of course, knew animals had them, but in the sort of obscure way that people know the Earth is round (most people, anyway). He’d never learned, or cared to learn the specifics up until that point.

He’d read that issue over and over again, not really considering why he felt defense mechanisms were so fascinating (it may _possibly_ have been related to a certain latent Heavenly fear, but no matter). Some whales beached themselves to escape being eaten, even if they knew the beaching would kill them. Certain lizards were capable of severing their own tails to escape predatory clutches. And, in a revelation that had made Aziraphale spit cocoa onto the pages, one sea cucumber could shoot its organs at attackers.

Demons... demons had _this._

The unholy power within nearly floored him—would have done, if he hadn’t been gripping the door handle in a fist that could have crushed diamond. It was a flood, an avalanche, a hurricane—a barrage of Hellish energy so potent and thick that it would be staggering to any angel and nearly fatal to any human. It was designed to keep prying eyes away, keep potential threats away, keep the demon safe because he thought he was going to die.

_“Crowley!” _Aziraphale tried to call out, but his chest couldn’t inhale enough to make it anything more than a choked-out gasp. “Bugger.”

He didn’t have to search for him here, knowing exactly where he’d be. So, with monumental effort, he pushed against the energetic barrier and began making his way toward the bedroom. It was like walking through hurricane-force winds—having to lean in against it, his every step a struggle. He noted, with some trepidation, that everything in the house was hovering slightly; suspended in the thickness of demonic power and counteracting the laws of gravity, of time. Dust did not settle here, textiles did not decay.

Tripping over the hovering hallway rug, Aziraphale finally reached the bedroom door, the weight against his chest now staggering. He tried to ignore the pain of it, ignore the hint of betrayal he felt at his dear Crowley employing such a tactic to keep him away.

He knew, deep down, that Crowley likely didn’t mean it to keep _Aziraphale_ away. He meant it to keep _everything _away, and Aziraphale was just an unfortunate bystander. Crowley was, in all likelihood, very much not himself.

And this was increasingly clear as Aziraphale pushed the door open and stepped inside. The darkness was so uniform inside that Aziraphale could barely see the bed, despite knowing he was only feet away. So, hands held out defensively in front of him, he shuffled blindly closer until his knees hit the mattress, and Crowley came into view.

Aziraphale sobbed at what he saw.

The demon was curled in on himself, eyes open wide—unblinking, hollow, and blank. He clutched his angel blanket to his chest like a lifeline, and littering his clothing were rips and tears, through which burns, scrapes, and blood could be clearly seen. The clothing itself seemed to be wet—drenched, even, and the room smelled musty, like it had been that way for a long time. Crowley’s massive ebony wings were out behind him, the feathers waterlogged, messy, and in spots, blood caked. His left one was folded awkwardly and trembling slightly, swelling obvious near the carpal joint.

Aziraphale was helpless to stop the tears as they finally flowed over.

“Oh, Crowley, you’re a mess,” he gasped, closing that last, Herculean distance and laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

The demon jerked hard, opening his mouth and hissing dangerously, fangs beginning to extend, but not at Aziraphale, not really. In fact, Crowley’s eyes hadn’t reacted at all, hadn’t looked to him.

“Crowley?” he asked softly, keeping his hand where it was and squeezing gently.

The hissing increased in volume and intensity, and for the briefest of moments, Aziraphale worried Crowley might bite him. But before he could address it, the demon himself spoke.

“Leave me alone,” he croaked, his voice completely wrecked. Hurt and more than a little confused, Aziraphale leaned in closer, the demonic defenses be damned.

“Crowley, I don’t understand, I thought you’d wan—“

_“You’re not real,” _Crowley hissed, shifting back on the bed to escape Aziraphale’s hand and whining when his clearly injured left wing folded tighter with the movement.

_“You’re not real, not real... please... please just leave me alone...”_

Aziraphale’s heart shattered into a million pieces. There was so much to unpack there, not the least of which being that Crowley was not only thinking he was hallucinating Aziraphale’s presence _right now, _but also the inherent probability that this likely meant he’d been hallucinating him for a while, _years_, possibly.

But those things could be addressed later. Right now, he needed to figure out how to make Crowley realize that he _wasn’t_ hallucinating, that Aziraphale was right here, that it was over, that they were together now.

That, in itself, was puzzling. How to go about making Crowley’s mind rebel against a false image, how to make him _see_ Aziraphale, really see him? It would have to be something Crowley wouldn’t think Aziraphale would do, something he’d never suspect Aziraphale was capable of.

With a bittersweet grin, he straightened, fixed the tilt of his bow tie, and spoke.

“Erm... _fuck.”_

Aziraphale nearly screamed when every bit of hovering furniture slammed back down to the floor. Out in the hall, framed art pieces shattered and, by the sound of it, a few plates and mugs toppled from shelves in the kitchen. At that selfsame moment, the demonic barrier simply _popped_, like a struck balloon, and Aziraphale stumbled, unsteady on his feet. Once he’d found his balance again, he dared to look down at Crowley.

Those intense honey gold eyes were now trained intently on Aziraphale, and he was slowly beginning to sit up. He allowed the blanket to slip from his grasp as he did, a terribly shaking hand beginning to come forward, to quest for Aziraphale.

He decided not to move, but to let Crowley come to him, let Crowley come to this realization as slowly or as quickly as he needed to.

The demon’s hand pressed cautiously, carefully against Aziraphale’s waistcoat, a pitiful little gasp leaving his lips as he found him solid beneath his fingertips.

“N-no...” Crowley gulped, continuing to smooth his hand over Aziraphale’s chest, as if any momentary absence would break the image. “No, that’s... that’s not... you can’t... still time...”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, dying to throw himself forward, wrap Crowley up into his arms, hold him so tight there would never be any questioning his presence. But the demon was clearly spooked, and he feared making it worse. Gentle, that was key.

“They released me, love. I’m free,” the weight of the words hit him too, as he spoke them aloud, and his voice broke. The enormity of it made confidence flare up inside him like an erupting volcano—a giddy realization of the immensity of such a thing. _“I’m free_,” he said again, to both of them this time. “Free to be with you. _Forever_...”

Crowley was still shaking his head, still poking and prodding Aziraphale with doubt and confusion playing with his terrified features.

Slowly, almost glacial, Aziraphale reached up and took the demon’s hand in his own, holding it delicately like cracked glass as he caressed a thumb over the back, the way he used to.

Crowley looked down at his own hand as if it had been taken in by an alligator—like it was suddenly foreign to him, and he needed to cut it off to escape. Pity wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted Crowley to feel from him, even though it was prevalent, so he raised his other hand, gingerly cupping the demon’s cheek in his palm.

Crowley hissed in surprise, but didn’t pull away as, with cautious hope blooming in his radiant eyes, he looked back up to meet Aziraphale’s.

And despite the fear, the wounds, the struggle, the darkness, all of it—he was _so beautiful._

_“I’m here,”_ Aziraphale whimpered, moving the pad of his thumb over Crowley’s cheek with reverence.

“Oh... _oh God, angel...”_ Crowley practically erupted into pitching sobs, surging up to viciously wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, clutching at him desperately. When it wasn’t enough, he rocked forward, nearly forcing Aziraphale to tumble over backward, and wrapped his wiry legs around Aziraphale’s waist. His lips began pressing frantic, hurried kisses breathlessly over Aziraphale’s neck, cheek, and temple. He was practically ravenous; his breaths choppy and gulped, his hands continuously shifting where they gripped at Aziraphale’s back, as if any grip wasn’t sufficient to keep him there—like he’d float away if he let go. Scales blossomed down his spine and up his neck, their texture clear through the thin fabric.

Suddenly very overcome, Aziraphale buried his head in the crook of Crowley’s neck, pulling him in tightly, and allowing himself to weep with joy.

He was home.

It felt like hours they stood like that, clutching one another with a ferocity that could marvel the strongest bonds in all of Earth, Heaven, and Hell. Could have been hours, in fact, if the tiring burn in Aziraphale’s forearms was anything to go by.

“My dear?” he asked carefully into Crowley’s shirt.

Crowley reacted as if he thought the intrusion was going to take Aziraphale away from him, because he constricted tighter, releasing a desperate, animalistic wail into the angel’s coat.

“S’alright, Crowley. I’m not going anywhere. _Ever again._ I just... you’re hurt. Let me take a look at you?”

He attempted to pull back to allow for it, and Crowley keened again, viciously shaking his head ‘no’ against Aziraphale’s shoulder and rearranging his grip.

Overwhelmed with pity, Aziraphale relented, holding the demon up with one hand and stroking rhythmically up and down his back with the other. Just as gingerly, he allowed it to migrate back to the clearly injured wing joint, calling on his reserves...

And nothing happened.

“Bugger,” he whispered against Crowley’s hair. “I’m out. Just have to do this the old-fashioned way, then.”

Slowly, he walked into the bathroom, carrying Crowley easily along with him. His wings dragged along at Aziraphale’s sides and, for the first time since throwing himself at Aziraphale, Crowley made a small, pained sound on his own behalf.

“I know, dear, we’ll get you all taken care of, promise. But, er... I really do need you to let go. _I promise,_ I won’t leave you,” he hurried to add when Crowley tightened around him at the mention of it.

Aziraphale waited. He gave the demon all the time he needed, and eventually, painfully, he relented his grasp and stood mere centimeters from the angel, hands still on his lapels, twitching in a very obvious compulsion to grab back on.

He took a moment to meet his eyes; meet them, hold them, _convince them._ Crowley did not relax, per se, but he immediately settled a bit—hands stilling, body easing its trembling.

Aziraphale nodded, beginning to seek out the damage, and finding himself overwhelmed. Crowley’s whole left side—leg, hip, ribs, arm, and shoulder—were all burned. Not only was the clothing singed, with blackened holes revealing the worst of it, but his skin was as well—raised scabs surrounding sunken, irritated, bright pink marks. The knees of his trousers were torn, as were his knees beneath, dried blood caking both.

His initial plan had been to use a washcloth, but this was a bigger job than originally thought. With a hum, he pointed at the hem of Crowley’s shirt.

“Can you hide your wings away, so we can get that off?” he asked in a low whisper.

The demon’s throat bobbed with a convulsive swallow, and he shook his head.

“Empty too, huh?” he asked, noting that Crowley still hadn’t spoken a word past his initial knee-jerk reaction to Aziraphale’s return. “Right then... you won’t be upset if I cut it off you?”

Crowley shook his head again.

Aziraphale reached for the medicine cabinet, also noting that even that minuscule movement had Crowley gripping at his lapels again. Without thinking, he began to circle the demon to cut the shirt from around the now rather permanent holes through which his wings protruded.

Crowley made a very worrying sound, much like a wounded animal, spinning as he did, so as not to allow Aziraphale behind him. In the past, he might have thought it a defense mechanism, or an instinct derived of self-preservation. Now, though, he saw clearly—Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale out of his sight, no matter if it was for seconds.

“Alright, alright. Here, come this way, yes, that’s it. Face the mirror. There, now. You can still see me. Is this alright? May I?”

Crowley nodded brokenly again, his serpent’s eyes following Aziraphale in the mirror with an intensity that, if pointed at anyone else, probably would have resulted in a few soiled trousers. As it was though, Aziraphale’s heart swelled with love as he gently cut the tattered shirt from around Crowley’s wings, careful to avoid bumping his sagging, injured one. He peeled the shirt away with slow, mellow movements, a cringe rising to his features when the fabric stuck to old wounds as he did. Crowley, though, didn’t react at all, even when the pull of the shirt through scabs tore them open, except to keep his eyes, unblinking and slightly feral, trained on Aziraphale.

With methodical precision and reverent devotion, he stripped Crowley completely, finding a canvas of cuts, bruises, and blood that made him tut with pity. Nudity wasn’t anything to them, not really. He suspected, with the demon’s revelations regarding physical intimacy, that if he were in his right mind currently, he’d probably have had something to say about it. As it was, though, Crowley barely seemed cognizant—cognizant of anything, that is, aside from Aziraphale’s presence.

Aziraphale led him toward the shower, but stopped short of it, intending to allow Crowley to step in. Crowley whimpered when he did, taking a panicked step backwards, back toward Aziraphale, trampling one of his own primaries as he did.

Realization and sympathy warred in Aziraphale’s mind, but he didn’t even have to think about what to do next.

“Alright, yes. Give me a moment. I’m not going anywhere, just... give me a bit of space...”

Flailing in his hurry, Aziraphale ripped his bow tie off, unhooked his pocket watch, set it on the counter, and removed his waistcoat, shirt, and vest. After that came the belt, trousers, and pants, and before long, he was helping Crowley to crawl with him into the claw-foot. Standing in front of the demon like he was, he couldn’t help the wings, which dragged over the edge and flopped down against the basin, prompting another pained whine from Crowley.

The shower became about so much more than just getting clean. First and foremost, he was finally, after 6000 years of distance, allowed to care for Crowley, to dote on him. Unashamed, unafraid, and unstoppable. With the delicacy he usually reserved for very old books, he saturated a washcloth and dabbed at each and every cut, squeezed out the lukewarm water to cascade gently over the burns. From forehead to tip-toes, he meandered a path of soothing, soapy caressed over the mangled, burned flesh at Crowley’s shoulder, the striped welts down his arm, the thick purple and blue bruise marring his ribs, the scabbed-over cut at his hip. Next, Aziraphale lathered up the demon’s lovely ginger hair, held his neck for support as he tipped his head back and washed it clean. And, eventually, he coaxed the deep ebony wings to wrap around in front, so Aziraphale could caress through every single waterlogged feather without ever leaving Crowley’s sight. The tub filled with discarded, broken feathers and blood-tinted water, but his eyes were only for Crowley.

And that was the most transcendent thing about this very simple, very human act. They weren’t just bathing together; they were washing away millennia of doubt, millennia of fear, millennia of pain. They were being cleansed of every controlling, grasping hand ever laid on either of them by their respective head offices. They were ridding their Earthly flesh of any remnants left behind by an immortal lifetime of servitude, of tortures and trials. They washed away everything.

Everything but each other.

Aziraphale was glad that the dripping water had disguised the unbidden, joyful tears long enough for him to turn the tap, and pull Crowley from the shower, wrap him in a soft, fluffy towel. He’d hate for Crowley to see tears and think that they were anything but completely, manically, uncontrollably happy tears.

Gently, he patted the demon dry, wary of the many, many bruises and burns, and led him back into the bedroom, where he took his hand to maintain that connection, twisted, and retrieved a pair of pants and soft cotton pajama bottoms from the wardrobe.

Crowley still wasn’t entirely himself as Aziraphale dressed him—namely he wasn’t speaking—but he was definitely more at peace. Whether that was because he had accepted that this wasn’t a hallucination, or because he’d decided he didn’t care if it was, that was another story entirely. But Aziraphale did all in his power to keep them connected, keep them touching at all times. Fingers interlaced as Aziraphale pulled out his own pajamas, a palm on his neck as he dressed, nails raking through soppy hair as they meandered to the bed.

He paused their trajectory, reaching out to the nightstand where Crowley’s mobile phone lay discarded. Holding the demon’s gaze as unyieldingly as possible, he dialed Penny quickly, and when she answered with hope in her voice, he simply stated, “I’ve got him,” and hung up, tossing the phone back aside.

He helped Crowley down first, still mindful of the wing joint that, at present, he couldn’t do anything about. He laid him out reverently on his side, wings flat behind him, before lowering himself in and pulling the downy sheets and duvet up to their chests.

He hadn’t even settled in when Crowley surged forward, burying his forehead against Aziraphale’s sternum and wrapping him in constrictor-like arms and legs alike. Aziraphale conceded with vigor, allowing himself to be yanked bodily against his love. He wrapped him up, placing one hand between the wings, noting the continued presence of scales, and the other, he used to cradle the back of Crowley’s head, scratching against his scalp in the way that always sent him straight off.

The effect was inspired—Crowley finally took a long, deep breath, letting it out in a wave of expelled anxiety, fear, pain, and loneliness that warmed the skin of Aziraphale’s chest. And, just when it seemed like he might be starting to drift finally into sleep, he spoke.

“Did... did you say _fuck_?!” he grumbled, disbelieving, into the hair on the angel’s chest, and Aziraphale was helpless to stop the slightly frantic but very genuine guffaw that bubbled up out of his throat. Crowley mimicked it, beginning slow and cautious and then devolving into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“I did,” Aziraphale replied fondly, once the giggles had begun to die down. “Thought it might get your attention.”

“It certainly did, angel. It certainly did.”

Aziraphale sighed, releasing his own pent-up dam of stress and anxiety. What remained was, as had always been there at base-level, an incredible amount of love and devotion, and a not inconsiderable amount of exhaustion.

“D’you know,” he started, continuing to stroke up and down Crowley’s back, his scalp. “I could use a very long nap.”

“Mmm,” Crowley replied by way of agreement, his own hands opening and closing in a slightly possessive movement against Aziraphale’s shoulder blades.

As his eyelids and limbs grew heavy, Aziraphale recalled a passage from that violent book he’d been reading that only now made its significance known.

_Only after disaster can we be resurrected. It is only after you’ve lost everything... that you’re free to do anything._

And he didn’t look to the ceiling, to the sky, to the Heavens, then. He looked down at the blissful face of his dearest love, slumbering peacefully, and embraced the possibility.


	63. The Cove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for a brief but pretty intense description of a panic attack

Despite a level of exhaustion that was frankly staggering, Crowley struggled to fall asleep. Every time he began to drift, gravity and pressure lifting away to release him, he felt himself panic—jolt back to full wakefulness and scramble desperately for Aziraphale. Every time, he was there. Every time, the angel would groan, and then coo sleepily at him, pull him tighter, then settle back in. Crowley wasn’t even sure he was waking Aziraphale with his paranoia fits; the angel’s hushed and intimate reassurances seemed loaded for use at all times.

Repetition was key, and slowly, Crowley’s mind began to accept that he would not, one of these times, wake to find the angel gone. And when that fact finally sank in, so too did Crowley—falling down and down into such a deep and unbreakable sleep that the second apocalypse could have arrived, and he wouldn’t have so much as stirred.

It seemed too deep even for dreaming, leaving him in a suspended state of blissful deprivation. Somehow, though, even though he was completely and utterly dead to the world, he could still feel Aziraphale there—his presence rich, and warm, and heavy.

When eventually he stirred, muscles and skin taught from disuse, he found himself wondering if he’d slept another hundred years. A momentary spike of dread hit him at the thought, as he would be very put out if he never saw Penny again.

So, as gently and quietly as possible, he rolled over to peer through the curtain-muted sunshine to his phone which was, of course, dead.

He’d known when he fell asleep that he was completely drained of power, so he decided to give the revitalized demonic reserves a stretch.

The phone popped to life, the battery bar going from 0 to 100 in less than a second. Grinning, he peered at the date.

“Hm,” he grunted in relief, finding it had only been a month.

“What’s the date, my dear?” came a groggy rumble from over his shoulder, and he was helpless to stop the giddy smile that spread his lips.

Aziraphale was a complete mess when Crowley faced him again—deep, dark pillow marks across his face and neck, and hair sporting an impressive cowlick at his left temple that made him look slightly deflated. And Crowley _adored _it.

“Twenty-third of May, 2:06 in the afternoon,” Crowley replied, his own voice coming out as a frog’s croak.

“_May?!_” Aziraphale asked, attempting shocked but really just managing sleepy disinterest. “We slept for _a month?!”_

Crowley grinned, flopped the phone back onto the nightstand, and settled back in opposite his angel.

First thing was first—they’d forgotten something before going to sleep.

He could have wept, screamed, leapt into the sky at the familiar and yet so absent feel of Aziraphale’s plush, soft lips on his own. He became physically dizzy as his heart soared and his skin crawled, the long, slow pass of lips and a hint of tongue washing over him and soothing the hurt of the last six years.

“Has it really been six years?” he whispered against the angel’s lips, brushing their noses together delicately.

Aziraphale groaned at the sum, closing his eyes and resting his forehead to Crowley’s.

Crowley gulped, fearing the words bubbling up but needing to get them out, like a splinter.

“Is... _is it really over?”_

The angel’s sky blue eyes opened, and their conviction was unmistakable. It was actually a bit alarming, the determination and certainty in such cloud-soft depths. But the best kind of alarming.

“Yes, dear. It _really _is. _We’re... we’re free!”_

Crowley inhaled the statement, taking it into his lungs and letting it fill him up, saturate him. And he smiled.

“How? Why? Why did they...” he began, the words spilling out like a flood.

Aziraphale silenced him with another kiss, and Crowley simply melted on the spot. Fuck questions, fuck _why._ Nothing mattered but what he had here, now.

“I think we both have a lot to tell each other. But first, do you think you could bring your left wing around, please?”

Crowley had all but forgotten the break. At this point, it had likely healed wrong, and was inoperable and flightless. He scowled.

“I can fix it...”

“_Don’t you dare,” _Aziraphale snapped, his face pinched with chagrin.

Helpless, as he’d always been, to deny his angel, Crowley curled his left wing around to rest the slightly misshapen carpal joint between them. It ached and clicked as he moved, and he frowned down at it.

That is, until Aziraphale scooped a hand beneath it, cradling it like a delicate jay’s egg, and leaned in to press his lips to the scarring. Crowley gasped and whimpered as it mended completely painlessly—bones and muscle and sinew rearranging to perfection. Lastly, the scarred, split skin stitched itself back together, and a cropping of tiny, downy black feathers appeared.

“Th-thanks, angel,” Crowley croaked, pulling his wings back and promptly hiding them both away in the ether.

“Of course, love. Now, my stomach isn’t really feeling up to the heaviness of a meal, after sleeping for a month, but... what would you say to some travel mugs of tea, and a nice, long walk down on the beach? We can answer each other’s questions, or... just walk. Whichever you prefer,” Aziraphale finished happily.

“Sounds perfect, Aziraphale... _God, I missed saying your name. Aziraphale,”_ he whined, pecking another quick kiss to his lips.

“And I missed hearing it. The sound of your voice is like symphonies to me Crowley, and I’ve never told you. But it is. I’ve never heard an opera more heart wrenching, never an orchestra more divine.”

Crowley cringed halfheartedly, rolling away on the bed. “L’right, that’s enough of that, ya sap,” he said, hardly meaning a word of it.

They stayed side-by-side as they pattered about the kitchen, fetching mugs, lids, and tea bags. Crowley filled the kettle, and Aziraphale put it on. Aziraphale pulled the sugar from the cupboard, Crowley scooped it.

He was lulled so easily into a relaxed state of bliss, with Aziraphale nearby, that he didn’t hear Aziraphale’s little “oh!” of remembrance, didn’t see him turn back for the bedroom. Didn’t hear the creaking of the wood under his bare feet as he disappeared around the corner.

Crowley picked up his mug, half-turning to Aziraphale, or rather, where Aziraphale had been.

“Angel, would you like me t—”

It plowed through him with a force that rivaled his Fall. He froze, motionless and cold as he found himself alone in the kitchen. His mind rebelled instantly, betraying everything he’d thought he knew, backtracking over what he thought he remembered. He was rising from bed alone, staring into a mirror that reflected only himself, he was stepping into the shower alone, dressing alone, sleeping alone. None of it had happened, at least... not the way he remembered it.

“Angel...” he whispered, the room starting to spin.

_It wasn’t real. He’s still in Rome, you’re still lying on your bed, pathetic and weak, poisoning yourself just to wash him away. It isn’t real. You’re trudging around the house, making happy with a ghost, and what’s worse—you’re falling for it. The only voice here is yours, the only body, yours._

The mug shattered on the floor, and Crowley crumpled with it, the hardwood rising to meet him with the continued rotation of the room. He inhaled as best he could, tried one more time to call out to his angel, but his throat had closed up, the name died on his tongue.

But then he was being bodily swept up, held wonderfully tightly, rocked slightly. The spinning slowed, the breaths returned, and Crowley could smell that cotton and sunshine scent in the angel’s hair.

“...loody stupid of me, Crowley, I’m so sorry, come back to me, come on. I’m here, I’m still here. I was just throwing the bedding in the wash, wanted it clean and warm when we came back, in case you wanted to get back in bed. I didn’t even think, as I said, right bloody fool I am, so thoughtless...”

The angel’s consistent, dithering voice was actually a beacon in the fog of Crowley’s brain, and the more he spoke, the brighter it became.

_It was real. He’s still here, don’t you see him? Can’t you hear him? Feel his strong arms, his soft skin? He’s right here._

Swallowing a very persistent lump, Crowley nodded, speaking quietly.

“N-no, angel, it’s... s’not your fault, s-should have... said, should have b-been...” he stammered for words, both hands trembling and questing over the angel’s chest again, ensuring his solidness. It was the combination of it all that made it sink in—his gentle, hushed voice, his powerful arms wrapped tightly around Crowley, his classic, vintage scent—made Crowley realize how ridiculous he was being.

“Ssssssorry angel, don’t kn-know what came... came over me, sssssilly, really...” he began to push away from the angel, not because he actually wanted the space, actually _wanted_ to pull away, but because it was what he’d always done. _Step away, hide your eyes, stop talking._

Aziraphale, for his part, only held him tighter, smothering any thoughts of fleeing before they’d even materialized.

“No, no, my dear. Absolutely nothing silly about it. We’re both carrying some... trauma, of late, and I should think it’s safe to say you’re going to need me with you, beside you, in your sight at all times-“

Crowley balked, again, not because this wasn’t what he wanted, it was. But he was becoming a burden to the angel, a responsibility. Aziraphale had his own traumas to work through, and he shouldn’t be concentrating solely on Crowley...

“No, angel, you don’t... you don’t have to do that, I... I’ll deal with it, I will, just give me some ti—“

“Anthony Crowley!”

Crowley was helpless against the scolding tone, and he stilled, mouth slammed shut and body gone still—all fight suspended.

“Do you know, I really dislike that phrase... _deal with it._ And I’m pretty sure I’ve told you as much. Crowley... you will _never ever _have to deal with _anything _on your own again, do you understand me? I want to help you, I want to be what you need. And I’m free to now! Completely, 100%, no-strings-attached _free_. And if that means I stay at your side, hand in yours, pattering about like a conjoined twin for the _next_ 6000 years, then so be it. It’s what I want. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Crowley swallowed, nodding almost unnoticeably.

Aziraphale simply beamed. “Right, then. Will you come with me into the laundry, so I can finish up with the bedding? Stay with me?”

The angel’s tone was familiar, because it was Crowley’s, and suddenly it all clicked—Aziraphale needed Crowley close just as much as Crowley needed him. He was just disguising it better, putting on a better show.

And if Aziraphale needed something, Crowley was always going to provide.

The angel pulled him to his feet and took his hand securely, and the two of them trudged into the linen closet off the library. Aziraphale did everything one-handed; pulling the linens from the hamper, dropping them into the wash, pouring the detergent, setting the cycle. His other hand stayed tightly wrapped around Crowley’s, twitching occasionally to remind him it was still there. Any protests to the tune of “you could just miracle those” died on Crowley’s tongue, because he really didn’t care. If this was how Aziraphale wanted to do it, he wouldn’t stop him. Especially since he got to stand with him, hold him as he did.

Shortly after, they found themselves slowly meandering through the summer-warmed waters down on the beach, mugs of citrus tea in hand, trousers rolled up their shins, and their shoes discarded further up the sand.

Crowley could physically feel the effect it all had—the rhythmic, soothing sound of the waves, the chirping birds, the crisp, warm air on his skin. And Aziraphale’s hand, which had actually abandoned Crowley’s in exchange for resting on his lower back, almost around his waist. Crowley could feel his own breaths as they slowed, noted the way he stopped feeling the need to constantly look around, survey his surroundings. And his clipped, long, purposeful stride had morphed to a much more leisurely, dragging pace. And the most notable difference, his glasses; he’d left them in the sand with their shoes, and wasn’t even feeling a hint of anxiety the farther he got from them. He might even hazard to call the feeling _at peace._

“So?” Aziraphale asked softly, accompanying it with a rub of Crowley’s back when the word startled him a little. “Do you want to talk about the last six years, or do you never want to think about it again? I’m fine with either.”

Crowley puzzled. “Erm, both, a bit. I do... have questions, but... it all hurts to think about, so maybe... we get it out of the way now, and then...”

Aziraphale smiled, his radiance challenging the very sun above them.

“Alright,” he said, coming to a halt and caging Crowley in his hands. “What do you want to know?”

Crowley swallowed, fearing this question most of all. “It’s... it’s really over? How do you know? And why? Why now, why not... let it all play out? And what’s... what’s stopping them from changing their minds?”

Aziraphale smiled even more warmly, rubbing Crowley’s arm.

“All good questions,” he said simply. “Come and sit with me?”

Crowley followed up the slope of the beach as the angel miracled up, of bloody course, a tartan blanket for the two of them to sit on.

“Well...” Aziraphale began, settling in and leaning his shoulder against Crowley’s for constant contact. “I truly think Michael had a change of heart...”

Crowley scoffed. _Right. The angel that cut down Lucifer himself, a change of heart? Were the flying pigs there too?_

Aziraphale noted the derision. “No, really. She came to me one day in the gardens...”

“The gardens?!” Crowley interjected. The Vatican was home to one of the largest, most extensive libraries in the world. He would have thought Aziraphale would have set up camp there, lofted in the rafters like a ruddy barn owl. Er, library angel.

Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley’s heart stopped. Luckily, though, he didn’t need the damn thing.

“Oh, er, yes, I... I spent... quite a lot of my time there. It... it made me feel... closer to you. In a way...”

Crowley grinned with pride, leaning over intentionally and nudging the angel with his shoulder.

“Ahem, _anyway_, she came to me and... apologized...”

“Bullshit!” Crowley gasped, leaning away to give Aziraphale the full force of his shock and doubt.

“No, she did! She said that she had caused pain, and wished to heal it—said she ‘couldn’t see,’ whatever that means. But... I believed her—_believe_ her. I think... I think perhaps, after the failed Armageddon, they were all angry. I think their initial reaction was to lash out, and it was... mostly at me. But perhaps, now that some time has passed, they have gained some perspective, as far as the future is concerned. I think they’re not so much interested in what _was_ anymore, and more so on what will be, what _could_ be. The _Heaven_ that they could be, going forward. And... I have faith in them, I do, but...”

He paused, closing his eyes blissfully, turning his face toward the sun, and sighing with relief.

“I am unbelievably happy that their plans don’t involve me. I would like to see the finished product—an improved, better Heaven. One returned to the love and devotion and faith it once stood for. But, if this is what I receive for my absence,”

He looked back down and took Crowley’s hand.

“Then I’ll be glad to simply imagine.”

Crowley nodded, not quite convinced. His doubt must have been clear on his face, because Aziraphale squeezed his hand and winked at him.

“She also had me sign a release form,” Aziraphale added, and Crowley’s blood went cold.

“W-no, you... they had you... _Aziraphale, they didn’t...” _his throat closed up, and he was forced to stop, but Aziraphale had clearly heard enough to glean what he was getting at.

“Oh! Oh, no! No, Crowley, they didn’t Fell me. There was a... a sub... clause, or something, don’t really remember, I was in such a hurry to get back to you. It said that I am still an angel, and as such I am still to conduct myself like one, in the general sense. So... no orgies and ecstasy for me I’m afraid.”

Crowley choked.

“Sorry. Not really joking material...”

“No! It is, it really is!” Crowley practically shrieked. “I just... didn’t expect it.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said with a quick nod. “Well... now that I’m free of their clutches, I expect you’re going to learn a lot of new things about me,” Aziraphale said, and God help him, there was mischief in that smile. “In fact,_ I may learn some new things about me!”_

“Sounds _very_ good to me, angel,” Crowley replied, squeezing his hand.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic pass of the angel’s thumb over Crowley’s knuckles threatening to topple him over right there on the sand.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale continued, quiet. “So, so much. I... I tried to distract myself with books, and gardens, but... I couldn’t. It wasn’t like this in the past. I mean, I always missed you, mind, don’t think for a second I didn’t. But... I was capable of coping, back then, of still functioning on my own, without you. But... in Rome, I... I found myself getting... depressed and angry, knowing I _could_ do all of these things, but wanting, _so badly,_ to have you with me. My distractions just... didn’t work anymore. I couldn’t see, couldn’t fool myself anymore, that... there should be any reason why we _couldn’t.”_

Crowley was quiet, contemplating, but refused to offer up his own experience without being asked. And of course, Aziraphale sensed this.

“And... how about you, my dear? How did... how did you get on, these years?” The question was cautious, careful. It knew the answer, but deemed to ask anyway.

“Oh, angel, I don’t think you want to hear all that. Besides, wasn’t Penny providing you updates? Phoning every time I...”

He stumbled over the words. _Fucked up? Hurt myself? Betrayed you, betrayed your requests?_

Aziraphale’s hand was suddenly on his back, his shoulders, comforting and calm.

“Yes, she was. But... I suspect she was toning it down, to spare my... delicate sensibilities. Or... what she construed as delicate. But I... I want to know, Crowley. The good, the bad, all of it. I... I am still a guardian, after all, and... I’ve chosen my charge.”

Crowley’s heart soared at the confession, and he felt a tingling little itch—a desire to shrug, to shy away from the sentiment. More potent, though, was the angel’s tentative and hopeful smile, and Crowley quashed the desire to pull away.

“Well, to be honest, angel, there wasn’t much good,” he began, picking a small white and purple shell from the sand and brushing the debris from it. “I was a mess. Complete disaster.”

Aziraphale was quiet as he listened, but kept his hand on Crowley’s back. Everything began to feel _off_, as Crowley let his mind reel backwards. His skin itched as he recalled the near-discorporation of a drug overdose, the slice of glass through his palm, the weight of the sledgehammer in his hand as he mangled his beloved Bentley.

“I’m sorry, do you mind if we keep walking?” he asked, already pushing to his feet and feeling the surge of adrenaline and bitter taste accompanying the memories. It was like ants in his veins, needling and persistent. “Just... need to be moving for this...”

“Of course, love,” Aziraphale replied, snapping away the blanket and rising to walk at Crowley’s side, hand back tightly in his.

“I wasn’t... I never... I didn’t...” Crowley struggled to start, certain that any way he phrased it, it would disappoint the angel.

“Dunno, I just... I wasn’t alright, angel. Every second, every breath, every step, I was acutely aware of your absence. And I’ve never _not _been able to close that distance before. And this time, it... I dunno, it felt so _permanent._ I’ve felt like this before, over the millennia, but... I could always make an excuse to come and see you. Even if it was just for minutes. Even that... even that was enough to tide me over. A balm, of sorts. The sound of your voice, your silly, cautious smile when I said things that you found amusing but were technically blasphemous. Even your ruddy books.”

Aziraphale smiled wider, but did not interrupt.

“And I tried, I really did, I tried everything you asked of me, I did the... the three distractions, I went to your bookshop, I...”

“Shhhhh, shhh, Crowley, you’re getting upset,” Aziraphale finally interrupted, hurrying into Crowley’s path and holding his arms again. “I wasn’t asking any of this because I wanted you to feel bad about it, and I certainly don’t want you thinking I’d... I don’t know, be disappointed in you for losing hope. I just want to know exactly which wounds I should work to heal first. Alright?”

Unable to hold the angel’s intensely sympathetic gaze, Crowley looked down to the shell he was still holding, and fiddled with it.

“Looking back on it now, I feel sheepish, childish,” he began, glad to find that Aziraphale wasn’t preparing an immediate rebuttal. He was simply listening. “But in the moment, it... it was suffocating. The knowledge that... you were there, I just... _couldn’t see you, wasn’t allowed..._ it was excruciating. When... when you were discorporated in your burning bookshop, and I thought you were... _gone_, gone... there was this... this moment where I just... I asked myself... would I want to live in a world where he doesn’t exist, and the answer was _no. _But then I found that you’d just been discorporated, and... there was this relief that came with it... _fuck, relief isn’t the right word, I wasn’t bloody relieved you’d been discorporated...”_

“Crowley, I know what you meant. Go on,” Aziraphale interrupted gently.

“Right. I just... I meant that... it was out of my hands. You were still alive, but there was nothing I could do to bring you back _here. _That was up to Heaven. So I was able to pull myself together, confident in my inability to change your situation. When I... when I think that I can help, I always do. It’s... a flaw, or a compulsion, or a weakness...”

“I would very much beg to differ, love, but that’s an argument for another time,” Aziraphale said with a toothy grin, squeezing Crowley’s arm again.

Crowley grumbled. “But this time... I knew you were here, I knew you were suffering, I knew that I had the ability to stop it, if I only tried. The only thing stopping me was... was _them, again, _and I got so angry. It was the Fall, all over again; me, helpless against their cruelty, and just waiting for them to do me the favor of ceasing their relentless torture.”

He paused to take a breath, deciding to shut his eyes for the next part.

“So I tortured myself. Drugs, alcohol, pain. All of it. Probably only slept a few nights the entire time...”

_“For six years?!”_ Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley nodded. “I know Penny told you. I tried to make myself forget. It, er... it didn’t work.”

He opened his eyes again to see Aziraphale frowning at him.

“But I did go see Adam,” he said with a cringe, hoping to brighten the soured mood.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! How was he?” Aziraphale said, appearing to accept the olive branch, and maneuvering back to Crowley’s side. He hooked their arms together this time, and it was an anchor keeping him grounded.

“The same, actually. Loud. Youthful. Inquisitive,” Crowley replied, turning the shell over and over in his hand. “And Dog... he’s not even a hellhound anymore. One hundred percent dog, that one.”

After that, the conversation was breezy and simple, spanning hours as the two traversed back and forth across the little cove. They talked of everything and nothing, the ease of it reminding Crowley why he’d even spoken to the angel in the first place, up on that wall.

When the sun went down, they returned to the cottage, and whipped together something simple to have out on the patio—a nice tomato basil sauce, some spaghetti, and sautéed spinach. They ate one-handed, with their fingers interlaced constantly atop the table.

Crowley still couldn’t deny that little voice in the far recesses of his mind that was still insisting this wasn’t real, that he’d completely lost his mind, and was hallucinating vividly. Maybe even that he’d discorporated that night in his flat, drugs flooding his veins, and this was some sort of cruel torture that Hell had concocted.

But as he settled back into bed that night, Aziraphale solid and warm and very _real _next to him, he began to let it in—the possibility that, for the first time in his existence, they were both free to love one another.


	64. A Multitude of Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Teen+ for vague descriptions of panic attacks, and some references to sex.
> 
> (Another short one, sorry! But more is on the way!)

“Married?!” Aziraphale shrieked, both surprised and overjoyed. He couldn’t deny the hint of guilt that arose when he realized he’d missed most of Penny’s journey on this particular path, but he was quickly able to counteract it by reminding himself of what Crowley had been telling him for weeks, since they were reunited; he needn’t feel guilty over something he had no choice in. His choice had routinely been taken away over the millennia, ironically by those who’d invented free will, and Crowley was working to teach him how to take it back.

Just as Aziraphale was working to teach Crowley how to trust himself again, how to accept the things he thought were too good to be true, or worse, things he didn’t think he deserved.

It had happened three more times in the two weeks since they’d returned from the South Downs. Once, immediately upon entering the bookshop—Aziraphale had been overcome with joy to be back in his beloved shop. He hadn’t even left Crowley’s side; he’d simply been walking faster than him as he hurried into the familiar, comfortable back room, disappearing around the corner for a split second.

Crowley’s pitiful, desperate little squeak of “angel?” had brought him right back, but it was already too late—the demon was already hyperventilating, his eyes distant and petrified. He hadn’t fallen to the floor this time, but Aziraphale had still needed to hold him for a while, speak to him, remind him it was real.

The second time had been in Crowley’s flat. He’d wanted to go by “to take care of something,” and had ended up in his bathroom, Aziraphale by his side. The demon had dumped the entire contents of his medicine cabinet (an impressive and slightly terrifying amount of prescription bottles) into the toilet. He’d looked up afterward, into the mirror, and at that angle, he couldn’t see Aziraphale with him, even though he was only a foot away. He’d clammed up and dropped the bottles, and Aziraphale immediately recognized the signs. It was easier to talk him down that time, easier to keep him from spiraling.

The most recent one had been the worst. Crowley was sleeping much more regularly these days, nearly every night, and Aziraphale was fairly certain it was to deal with his exhaustion from having _not slept_ for the better part of six years. Naturally, they couldn’t _get_ exhausted, but... on a psychological level, it was entirely possible. And in that regard, Crowley definitely was. Aziraphale himself had been; it was why he’d managed to sleep for a month alongside Crowley in the South Downs.

Crowley had deigned to stretch out on the couch in the back room while Aziraphale sat in his usual chair, reading. He’d finished his book, and triple-checked that the demon was sound asleep before rising to get a new one. Perhaps it was the creak in the old floorboards that had woken him, perhaps it was an ingrained hyper acuity to Aziraphale’s proximity. Whatever it was, Aziraphale was alerted by yelling... no, _screaming,_ and he’d run frantically back into the back room. Crowley was on the floor, huddled against the couch, violently sobbing. It had taken Aziraphale much longer to talk him down from this one—so much, that he’d had to abandon all plans for the rest of the evening, scoop Crowley up, carry him upstairs to the bookshop flat, and lie with him until sunrise.

But maintaining as normal a schedule as possible seemed to help, and Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything more normal than going to see Penny.

“Yep, he asked me... erm, about six months ago,” Penny said, a hint of guilt in her tone but absolutely bouncing on her feet with excitement as she shoved her hand forward to present the ring.

Like her, it was very unique and abnormal—an antique iron band, set with one large, polished garnet stone in the center, and two smaller orbs of what appeared to be malachite on either side. And of course, butted next to the brand new wedding band was her obsidian ring; the one she’d engraved to signify her bond to Crowley, to the Trinity.

“Six months?!” Aziraphale gasped, more guilt flooding him. “Oh, sweetheart why didn’t you tell me?! Please tell me you weren’t waiting for us two?”

Penny nodded shyly. “Er, yeah. And I would have waited the whole eleven years, if it had happened.”

Crowley twitched at Aziraphale’s side, and he squeezed the demon’s hand.

“I wanted you both there,” Penny finished sweetly, looking down at her rings and grinning.

“You don’t have to wear that,” Crowley mumbled from Aziraphale’s right, hand twitching in his. “Mine, I mean, th-the one you wear for me. You don’t have to wear it anymore, it’s... you’re... getting married, you should...”

Crowley trailed off with a sigh, looking down at Aziraphale’s hand. He hadn’t been himself since they came back, but Aziraphale had known it was going to take some time, for both of them, to get back to a place of normality. Or whatever passed for normal, with them. But he could tell that Crowley’s quiet, subdued attitude was worrying Penny. Her eyes flitted to Aziraphale’s, a silent question—“is he alright?”— and Aziraphale answered with a lazy shrug—“working on it.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, raising her hand to look at the rings, smiling giddily as she did. “I made a promise to both of you, and one doesn’t negate the other. Plus, I like rings,” she added with a wink, attempting to goad Crowley into any kind of reaction.

The demon attempted a smile, but it was weak and forced.

But it didn’t even phase Penny. “I’ll be needing plenty of help... picking dresses, a venue, caterers...”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to bounce excitedly. “Oh! I volunteer to help you test cakes!”

Finally, Crowley cracked a fond grin, and both Aziraphale and Penny saw it for the opportunity it was.

“I need someone natty to come dress shopping with me... for both mine and the groom’s maids...”

“What?” Crowley asked, perking up even more, to Aziraphale’s delight.

“Oh, yes. Most of Arvin’s friends are women, he just gets along better with them. And I have quite a few guy friends, so, since we’re doing a Pagan ceremony anyway, we figured... what the Hell! Mix it up. He gets groom’s maids, I get... bride’s... guys?”

Crowley actually laughed, and Aziraphale’s heart soared. He squeezed the demon’s hand in appreciation, and was rewarded with a warm, genuine smile.

“Erm, actually...” Aziraphale began, ideas blossoming in his brain. “Have... have you chosen a venue yet?”

Penny shook her head, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s gaze.

“How would you feel about... er, having it at the cottage? On the cliffs, or the beach. Take your pick. It would make for some stunning photogra-“

He was heartily silenced when Penny flung herself bodily into him, arms squeezing tight around his neck.

“Oh, you mean it?!” she asked excitedly, looking first at Aziraphale, then to Crowley, who she calmed to address. “Is that alright? With both of you?”

Crowley seemed overwhelmed, but not in a bad way—it was simply a lot to take in, all at once.

“Oh, y-yeah, doesn’t matter to me. Erm... if I may make a suggestion, though... for a bakery?”

Aziraphale felt the memory surge through him, filling him with a nostalgia that warmed his very divine soul—pulling up to the gravel lot, Aziraphale stumbling, flustered, from the driver’s seat. Two lovely women, cheery and conversational, serving them some delightful baklava. An apple tree in the high sunlight.

“Oh, yes, that bakery in the South Downs, what was it called? Oh, I don’t recall. Perhaps we could take a trip down there? Together? You could scope out the landscape, test the bakery, maybe even come back to the cottage, have some dinner with us, stay the night? Oh, that sounds so wonderful, what do the kids call it? A sleepover?”

Crowley leaned bodily against Aziraphale’s shoulder, drawing his attention. When he turned, he found a muted, comfortable smile on the demon’s lips.

“Yeah, angel. A sleepover,” he whispered, before those perfect, pink lips meandered forward and touched Aziraphale’s in a simple but heart-stuttering kiss.

When Aziraphale turned back to face Penny, she was smiling furiously.

“That sounds absolutely wonderful. Full disclosure, it’s only going to be both of our closest family and friends, maybe thirty people, tops. I don’t wanna overload your quaint little place. And, assuming the weather’s nice, they’ll mostly stay outside. May need access to a bathroom, though. Er, you do have a bathroom, right? Do you... wait no, don’t answer that, bloody intrusive, that, don’t know why I—“

The poor girl was becoming flustered, and Aziraphale saved her the trouble.

“Yes, there’s a bathroom, dear girl, no need to fret. Now, shall we discuss details? Perhaps over a latte and some scones?” he asked, beckoning her toward the book shop’s exit.

Everything started happening so fast after that, and Aziraphale was both delighted and perturbed by it. The routine of it all seemed to be helping Crowley’s mental state—having something to do, advising on fashion and decor for the ceremony. But Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten his promise—he’d agreed to discuss the idea of physical intimacy with Crowley after the trials were over.

And now they were so busy there was hardly the time to devote to such a topic. After all, Aziraphale didn’t want to go into it blind, or without preparation. Things like this required study, so that one might possess a modicum of a knowledge base to build upon. He knew the mechanics, of course, but in the most obscure of ways. He understood how the humans went about intercourse, he knew how pregnancy occurred. But the enjoyment aspect, the entire pleasure side of it... he did not have the foggiest.

Briefly, he considered masturbation. It did seem the most obvious and hands-on (he giggled at the pun) way to gain experience.

But he quickly shot it down, namely because he didn’t _want _to. The idea of indulging in any sexual act that didn’t involve Crowley... it just didn’t interest him. That and, he would admit, it scared him a little.

All of this compounded with the fact that Crowley didn’t appear to be in any state to tackle such a discussion made Aziraphale positively puzzled. So he decided to do what he always did when he wished to gain knowledge on something; he endeavored to _read about it._

Searching for literature, however, deemed to be an overwhelming task, first and foremost because Aziraphale desired to do said research privately, and Crowley still couldn’t be away from him without descending into fits of panic.

So they began working on it. The first time was simply a tiny test—Crowley would pop down to the cafe a few doors away from the bookshop, pick up some coffee and pastries, and come right back. Aziraphale, rather ingeniously, if he did say so himself, devised a plan to counteract the demon’s paranoia; he removed the bow tie from his neck and fastened it around Crowley’s wrist like a bracelet. This, he figured, would act as a talisman of sorts—if ever Crowley found himself spiraling into the belief that his reality wasn’t _real_, that Aziraphale hadn’t returned from Rome, then he could look down, touch the thing, feel its warmth, its purity, its hint of angelic divinity, and know that this wouldn’t be possible if Aziraphale wasn’t _here._

Crowley succeeded, but evidently it had been rocky, with Crowley managing to convince himself that, in a stupor, he’d gone to Aziraphale’s shop, dug out an old bow tie, and tied it to his own wrist, for some reason. But it was a start, and one Aziraphale vowed to work on.

His days were jam-packed. He helped Penny choose a date, he helped her address invitations, he and Crowley went with her to the downs and scoped out the cliffs, and tasted cakes at the bakery (which, to Aziraphale’s delight, was called Two Chicks Bakery, their logo a charming little mixing bowl overflowing with dough, two small chickens emerging with spatulas and whisks in hand... er, wing).

It was wonderful to see Margaret and Liza again. They had aged a bit in the six years Aziraphale had been gone—a few more lines in the skin, a few more grey hairs—but otherwise they were as welcoming and chipper as ever. And, to Aziraphale’s glee, when he inquired about wedding cakes, they both initially thought it was Aziraphale and Crowley getting married, which had the demon turning all shades of red.

And, as Crowley slowly became more independent, able to spend hours at a time apart from Aziraphale now, he kept doing his research. He even broke down and asked Penny to help him figure out internet buying (without telling her what, exactly, he was looking for, of course, that would be incredibly awkward), and purchased books on lovemaking through something called eBay. And eventually, after several days spent nervously pacing the length of the bookshop and arguing with himself, he nipped over to the adult shop next door and inquired after as many configurations as he could, which turned out to be a surprising many.

But when he was finally feeling confident enough to broach the topic... Penny’s wedding snuck up on him.


	65. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+
> 
> Obnoxious amounts of fluff. *slaps the heads of Aziraphale and Crowley* "These bad boy(shaped creature)s can... you know what, you know the drill."

The morning of Penny’s wedding was a nice one. The normally blustery ocean winds were calm and subdued, the waves down below equally so. The sun was high and bright, but the fluffy, intermittent clouds weren’t allowing it to get too hot. Slight afternoon showers were in the forecast, according to the South Downs Observer, but they were likely to come and go before the 4pm service. It was indeed _so perfect_ that Aziraphale pondered if Adam was involved.

Aziraphale had awoken before Crowley, as was typical, and simply lay with him, stroking fingers through his hair until he stirred. It was a quiet morning, the two of them pattering about, coffee in hand as they set up everything for the ceremony. It felt... domestic, comfortable. Like they didn’t need to speak to work well together, like they didn’t need to delegate tasks. They simply worked off one another’s progress—Aziraphale summoned a white wicker archway covered in lilies and sunflowers, and secured it near the edge of the cliffs, where the brilliant sunset light would illuminate the bride and groom best. Crowley miracled up a white canopy for the reception, as well as elegant wrought iron tables and chairs. Aziraphale trimmed the grass and set out the chairs for the ceremony, as well as willing up a nice stone aisle down the middle. Crowley migrated inside, where he utilized more miracles to tidy up and set up a longer, more guest-friendly table for mingling (with a small detour into the conservatory to ensure the plants would be on their best behavior).

After that, the two of them took a small tea and sandwich break before heading to the bedroom to get dressed, surprisingly, _not _in clothing conjured from raw firmament.

Aziraphale was fairly certain he suffered a heart attack at the final product—Crowley had matched the deep navy of the bridesmen in a slim-cut three-piece suit with pure white shirt and tie. He donned his usual black snakeskin boots, incredibly overpriced wristwatch, and sharp Jean Paul Gaultier sunglasses. He was, to put it simply, _a vision._

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasped as he pulled on his own jacket (an off-white brocade that would complement Penny’s dress), unable to keep the infatuation from his voice. “You... you look very handsome.”

Crowley blushed, actually blushed, and Aziraphale felt his heart do a few more acrobatics.

“Thanks, angel,” he said, approaching Aziraphale and fussing—poofing up and straightening his navy bow tie, slimming down the chocolate brown waistcoat. “But I’m not the one everyone will be staring at. That’ll be the literal angel marrying the pair.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Angel _and demon._ She did request we do it together, remember?”

Crowley grumbled and pulled a face. “N’yeah, it’s... really... not my scene, I think it should just be you up there, s’not very... traditional, to say the least, with this being... you know—” he motioned vaguely out the window, to where the reception tent now was, “—and me being...” he pressed a hand over his heart.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, grabbing both the demon’s wrists tightly in his own and staring at him until he looked up. “I don’t ever want to hear you speak that way about yourself again, understand? You’re my greatest love, you’re basically just a different species of angel—”

Crowley scoffed, but Aziraphale spoke over it.

“And you’ve just as much right to stand on that altar as I have. Besides...”

He released Crowley’s hands, reaching up to cup his cheek. The demon melted, closing his eyes, releasing a long-held breath, and relaxing every muscle in his body.

“I don’t wish to be up there without you. I don’t wish to be _anywhere _without you, ever again. Alright?”

Before Crowley could respond, the doorbell was ringing, and excited giggling could be heard. Crowley’s facade came back up, to Aziraphale’s chagrin, and the demon reached up to run a hand through his own hair, leaving it impeccably styled. Aziraphale’s heart was getting very tired of the theatrics.

“I do so miss it long,” he said as he stepped past Crowley and down the hall, the demon on his heels. “Would you indulge me, at some point, and grow it back out?”

“Anything, angel. Anything you ask,” Crowley said, his tone so earnest and fond that Aziraphale was forced to take a moment before opening the front door to simply admire him.

After that, the day became a whirlwind. Aziraphale set Penny up with some folding room dividers in the sitting room, so that once she was ready, she could simply emerge from the rear patio and walk down the aisle. The bridesmen and groom’s maids coordinated the caterer, DJ, bartender, bakers, and florist (the amount required would have completely stripped Crowley’s lush garden) and after that, guests began arriving. Crowley directed them where to park out front, while Aziraphale greeted them and directed them around back to enjoy the scenery and get refreshments.

Aziraphale began to worry that it was all too much, too fast for Crowley. He peeked around the front of the house several times to check on him, and was delighted to see him mingling with late arrivals, cracking jokes, and smiling. A nagging suspicion that it might all be an act arose, and Aziraphale snuck into the house, retrieved his casual tartan bow tie, and hurried out front to tie it around Crowley’s wrist, just like they’d been doing to counteract the demon’s panic. Aziraphale expected him to grumble about it not matching his ensemble, and _Tartan is hideous angel_, but he didn’t. He simply lovingly caressed the fabric and thanked Aziraphale. He was able to relax at the sight, and truly begin to enjoy the joyous day.

The two of them helped Penny change into her dress (as she hadn’t considered needing help when she decided to have bridesmen instead of maids), and Aziraphale’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“Oh, Penelope, you look absolutely _radiant!”_ he gasped, stepping back to take her in.

Her dress was nothing opulent, as she had insisted that she didn’t want the day to be about fancy things. It was a cream-colored chiffon, maxi length, with a thick, navy silk ribbon tied about her waist. At her back, woven into a small, understated lace train, were two long feathers—one white, and one black. She’d made up some nonsense about doves and ravens to explain it away to her sister and Arvin’s family, but really they had been gifts from Crowley and Aziraphale. It had been Crowley’s idea, actually, one that took Aziraphale’s breath away with pride; Crowley had wanted her to have something of both of them as she took this momentous step in her life.

The dress bared her shoulders through thin, embroidered floral straps, and her long red-brunette hair had been half-pulled back in two simple but elegant twists, which were adorned with wildflowers. And her smile was more brilliant than the South Downs sunset.

“Erm, Penny,” Crowley spoke up from behind Aziraphale, and he turned to face him.

“I... I have something for you. A... gift, sort of,” he grumbled, his body language very muted and shy. This was becoming more common these days, Aziraphale noticed, with Crowley not keeping his cool, collected facade up all the time.

“Oh, Crowley! I said no gifts, remember! The guests are supposed to pledge donations to the charities in the book out ba—“

“I know,” Crowley interrupted with a shrug. “But it’s... it’s just something I... well, I... fuck. Here.”

As Aziraphale watched curiously, Crowley pulled a small, brown moleskine journal from his inner breast pocket, and held it out to Penny, who carefully took it.

“I... I recognize this,” she said quietly, caressing the front cover with a few gentle fingers. “You... you were using this when Aziraphale was in Rome, you...”

She trailed off, cracking it open with both curiosity and awe on her features. Her breath caught as she read, and Aziraphale’s own curiosity got the better of him.

He looked imploringly at Crowley as the girl’s head snapped up.

“What... what is...”

“It’s, er... notes. Observations. I watched you and Arvin over the years, took note of your...” he cringed, but powered through, “_love languages._ The little things you did every day, small gestures I don’t think you were even aware of. I...” he paused, eyes flitting, of all things, _fearfully, _at Aziraphale. “I wanted to catalogue them for myself, for when... when he returned. I wanted to know, so that I could... replicate it. Understand it. I dunno....”

He trailed off as both Penny and Aziraphale were staring at him, both of them beginning to tear up.

Aziraphale felt like his heart, his divine soul, were about to burst from the confines of his corporeal body. Crowley had been studying _love,_ just as Aziraphale had been studying sex, both without the knowledge of the other. It was comical, romantic, breathtaking, and above all... it was so _heavenly. _They’d been devoting themselves to the other’s unending happiness, much like the couple about to marry.

“But it’s all in here now,” Crowley continued, tapping a finger to his temple twice. “So I thought you might like to have it. A timeline of sorts, for your journey toward—”

He yelped as Penny threw herself at him, embracing him tightly and letting out a tiny whimper.

“This is beautiful, Crowley, _thank you_!” she cried, rocking him back and forth comically while he looked at Aziraphale for help.

Aziraphale simply beamed, shaking his head in a gesture that clearly said ‘you stoked her gratitude, now bask in it.’

Penny pulled away, cracking the journal open again and making an adoring face.

“Oh, this is so beautiful! I’m gunna sit down with him and we’ll read through it together! I... oh, I love it, Crowley!”

Her voice caught, and the tears finally began to fall.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said, his confident demeanor finally returned as he stepped forward, tilted her head up by the chin, and carefully wiped the tear away, but preserved her understated makeup. “You’re going to ruin all this gorgeous makeup. Chin up, Pen. You’re getting married today.”

She smiled, then, appearing completely overcome, and leaned in to kiss Crowley reverently on the cheek. “Thank you, Crowley. I love you.”

The poor demon looked like he’d been shot—eyes wide and body statue-still. Aziraphale smiled, taking his hand securely.

“Well, we best be getting to the altar. It’s almost time. You sure you don’t want one of us to escort you?” he asked gingerly.

“Oh, no,” Penny said with a wave of a hand. “The tradition of giving a woman away implies ownership. Plus... I’d like to think my dad is walking with me. I just... can’t see him,” she finished sadly.

Aziraphale nodded. “Such a strong young woman you are, Penelope. I, for one, am _very proud of you.”_

Her lip trembled again, and Crowley slapped Aziraphale’s arm playfully.

“You’re gunna make her start crying again, angel!” he accused, very little actual scolding in his voice.

“Quite right. Sorry. We best be off. You know when to come out?” Aziraphale dithered.

“Yep. When the music starts. I’ve got this. Get out there, my guardian angels,” she said with a beaming smile.

Crowley grumbled, but didn’t comment, as Aziraphale kissed her on the forehead, then migrated out of the sliding glass door.

Aziraphale was feeling overcome, to put it lightly. The joy radiating off of every human in the vicinity was practically getting him high, not to mention the awe-inspiring display of affection his lovely demon had just put on. So, without even taking two steps through the patio, he grabbed Crowley’s hand and bodily shoved him to the left, where he yanked the outer conservatory door open and hurried the demon inside.

“Angel, what on Eart—”

Aziraphale kissed him hard, tasting those words as they morphed into a surrendering whine. He kept his lips pressed to Crowley’s, gentle but intently moving until the demon’s entire body went practically boneless, leaning in toward Aziraphale as the angel’s hand cradled the back of his skull, twirling through the hair at the nape of his neck. And when Aziraphale finally pulled back, he could have sworn Crowley almost toppled over.

“What... what was that for?” Crowley croaked, blinking languidly as a dopey smile spread his slightly kiss-swollen lips.

“Because I felt like it,” Aziraphale said, punctuating it with a smaller, simpler peck to the demon’s lips. “Come on.”

Aziraphale found himself growing nervous as the two of them made their way around the crowd to stand beneath the archway. He’d never been a ‘big crowds’ kind of angel; even the festive gatherings tended to make him anxious. Large groups of humans tended to become rambunctious, and he was more of a ‘one or two people quietly drinking tea and reading books’ kind of angel. That, and he didn’t know most of the people present, and the expectation that he would have to mingle with all of them at some point was overwhelming.

Crowley’s hand gently resting on his back, between the shoulder blades, drove all of those anxieties away. He gave the demon an appreciative glance, briefly wondering how Crowley knew he needed comfort, before deciding that he would gladly tackle anything uncomfortable if Crowley was beside him.

“Ahem, er, if everyone would kindly take your seats, and we can begin?” he said, a little quieter than was necessary, with the wind and waves buffeting away his voice.

Crowley, keeping a hand on Aziraphale’s back, stepped forward slightly, placed two fingers in opposite sides of his mouth, and gave a whistle that could have drown out Heavenly trumpets.

“Oi” Crowley shouted with authority, “seats!”

From somewhere in the back of the crowd, one of Penny’s bridesmen yelled “the dad whistle!” and the crowd guffawed, then slowly quieted and took their positions.

Arvin approached, looking incredibly dashing in a suit similar to Aziraphale’s, and shook both Crowley and Aziraphale’s hands.

“How’s she doing? No chilly feet, I hope?” he asked nervously, watching as the bridesmen and groom’s maids began to pair up at the end of the aisle.

“Nope,” Crowley said with a wicked smile. “So hot, they’re practically in Hell.”

Arvin snorted a laugh, as did Aziraphale, who noted with glee that in the past he would have felt an obligation to frown at the joke. Now he simply felt... free.

Aziraphale cleared his throat again, taking courage from Crowley’s strong, stable hand on his back, unwavering.

“On behalf of the bride and groom, I’d like to thank you all for coming. And, er... if you need a top-up on cocktails, now is the time!”

The crowd laughed, and Aziraphale felt an encouraging rub of his back.

With a spark of remembrance, Aziraphale recalled that he’d written a little something, scratching out and re-writing his words to perfection over the last few nights, as Crowley slept next to him. Flustered that he’d forgotten them, he began patting his pockets, suddenly doubting if he’d actually put it in any of them.

“Er, one moment, I’ve got my... notes here... somewhere. Sorry. Not terribly good at public speaking, me...”

Without hesitation, Crowley subtly waved a hand and summoned the paper from wherever in the house Aziraphale had left it, and handed it over as he leaned in, whispered “you’re doing wonderfully, angel,” and placed a light kiss to his temple.

Aziraphale felt himself blush hot as an audible “awwww” could be heard from somewhere in the crowd, and Aziraphale hurried to unfold the paper so that he could hide his, no doubt, lobster-red face behind it.

“Many of you don’t know me,” he began, voice strengthening by the second. “And if you do, you know me as the stuffy bookseller who wouldn’t sell her books for university.”

The crowd gave a muted laugh, and Crowley’s hand returned to Aziraphale’s back, strengthening him even further.

“I met Penelope... oh, gracious, must be almost ten years ago, now. She was a tenacious, dedicated, and strong young woman on a path she was certain of. She was going to help people, of that she was absolutely certain. I knew this on day one. She could tell that I was very attached to the books in my shop, and almost immediately decided that, instead of purchasing the texts she needed, she would simply come to my shop every day to study.

“She is incredibly selfless that way. She sees the struggle in people, and doesn’t rest until she has eased that struggle, in some form or another. And as the years went by, and she and I went from casual acquaintances to lifelong friends, it became very clear to me that this was a truly special person indeed—capable of feats beyond the scope of humanity.

“And I knew that such a heart would require a remarkably special shepherd. And somehow, she found one.”

He paused, taking in the proud smile Arvin gave him.

“It is one of my life’s greatest honors to officiate the wedding of Penelope Blackthorn and Arvin Sarafian. We will be performing a traditional Pagan handfasting ceremony. For those unaware of the ritual, I will not bore you and prattle on with my infinite wisdom on the matter...”

More hearty laughter.

“And sum up by saying that the bride and groom have chosen this ceremony because neither are particularly religious, but both are incredibly spiritual. What this means is that they wish to be bonded to one another in a way that is lasting, that is meaningful, but that does not depend solely on any one religion. They wish their love to be fluid—ever changing and flowing with them, and as such this may include religions.

“If you wish to know more about the rites and rituals we will be performing today, please come chat me up after the ceremony, and I will be happy to talk your ear off, to my companion’s chagrin, I’m sure,” he finished, reaching over to give Crowley’s shoulder a squeeze as the audience laughed again.

“For the sake of brevity, I will explain thusly; the bride and groom will join us here beneath this archway, and join hands. Three ropes or ribbons will be presented by the selected family members, and I will say a few words as the bride and groom join hands, and have the ropes tied around their hands. They will then recite vows to each other, they will each _accept_ the other’s vows, hopefully...”

More raucous laughter, and an affectionate eye roll from Arvin.

“And break apart, pulling the ribbons taught, thus, you guessed it, tying the knot.”

The crowd let out a collective sigh of approval, and applauded. Crowley’s hand on Aziraphale’s back rubbed again, the gesture reassuring as always.

“So, without further delay, let us begin,” Aziraphale finished, stepping back to more applause, where he joined Crowley beneath the archway.

“Lovely speech, angel. Fun, witty... perfect,” Crowley whispered as a few hired musicians played a flowy, looping tune on their string instruments while the brides men and groom’s maids made their way down the aisle together, split, and took their seats in the front row. Arvin’s mother, the last of his maids, joined him by his side, her ceremonial cord draped over her arm.

“You don’t think I made too many jokes?” Aziraphale dithered, turning to look at the demon and losing his breath again. As he’d suspected, the sunset was beginning to cast brilliant colors over the scenery, and none more breathtaking than Crowley. His deep navy suit stood out in contrast with the verdant green grasses and sandy white cliffs, accentuating his slim, elegant form. His hair caught the reds and oranges of the sun itself, the sheen of it like divine fire. And his eyes, equally as fiery, even behind the shades, were now soft and content.

“No, angel. They loved it. You were brilliant,” Crowley said, his earnestness clear in his unwavering voice.

Finally, with the groups settled, the musicians played Penny’s song, and she emerged from the house, the sun on her skin and grace simply erupting from her. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat, and he reached out for Crowley’s hand, completely by habit. Crowley took it, clutching it firmly by his side as they awaited Penny’s arrival. Aziraphale was fairly certain he heard Arvin mutter ‘holy shit’ at the sight of her, but he decided, since it wasn’t a religious wedding, to let it pass.

Penny took her place opposite her fiancé, nearly bouncing with giddiness and clutching her bouquet of lavender, baby’s breath, and posy (these all grown by Crowley, of course). Traditionally, witches carried sage during their wedding, but given that the stuff was intended to ward off evil and had a tendency to make Crowley itch like the dickens, she’d opted for something a bit more demonically acceptable.

Aziraphale beamed at the two of them as the audience took a seat and the music tapered off, leaving only the gently crashing waves down below the cliff face.

Before he could begin, Arvin winked at Penny, and whispered “mawage,” which had her stifling a fit of giggles. Aziraphale was fairly certain it was a film quote of some kind, as he’d heard Crowley make the same joke, but it was definitely one he hadn’t seen. He made a mental note to ask Crowley about it at some point.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, we join here today to witness the bonding in marriage of Arvin and Penelope. If you would, join your right hands please.”

Crowley leaned in to take the bouquet from Penny, and she and Arvin took each other’s hands firmly, their rings already residing securely on their lefts.

“Mrs. Sarafian, your cord please,” Aziraphale asked quietly, and Arvin’s mother stepped forward to drape a pure black twisted cord over her son’s wrist.

“Black, from the Sarafian family, representing support, protection, and eternity. Penelope, the Sarafian family welcomes you into their family, their lives, and their hearts,” Aziraphale rehearsed, feeling the nervous butterflies begin to flutter in his stomach, despite having spent six hours the previous night practicing.

Penny grinned even wider, staring her future husband in the eyes, unyielding.

“Ms. Blackthorn, your cord,” Aziraphale continued, and Penny’s sister stepped forward, draping a deep maroon cord over Penny’s wrist.

“Red, from the Blackthorn family, representing passion, motivation, and strength. Arvin, the Blackthorn family welcomes you into their family, their lives, and their hearts.”

Aziraphale turned, pulling his own twisted white and silver cord from the wicker archway, but paused as a sudden, vivid memory accosted him.

_White, red, and black. The pieces that formed the trinity. The trinity which saved Crowley from the clutches of Hell, and led to their inevitable freedom._

Aziraphale fought to choke back a sob, shaking his head as he faced the betrothed once more.

“Sorry. Emotional,” he mumbled, to which he heard both Penny and Crowley whisper reassurances to him.

He only just managed to rein himself in, clearing his throat as he laid the white cord over the couple’s joined hands.

“And white,” he continued, voice breaking. “For the blank canvas that is your new family. May you fill it with color.”

Light applause rang out, and Aziraphale looked to both bride and groom, taking in their exuberant, radiant smiles.

“Crowley, if you would, please gather the cords,” he asked, and the demon stepped away—around to stand between audience and couple. He gently pulled the three long, dangling cords together as one, twisted them beneath their hands, and looped them over the top, where Aziraphale took them.

They paused like this, as Penny had requested—the couple’s hands joined in partnership, Crowley’s beneath them for support, and Aziraphale’s above, to shelter. The skin of all four of them joined together, for that one brief moment, and Penny let out a single, heaving sob of astonishment.

Her clairvoyance was clearly flooding her with the joyous emotions of the three beings she loved most in the world. Tears pooled in her eyes, and with emotion hushing her words, she mouthed ‘thank you.’

With an approving nod, Crowley removed his hand and stepped back around to rejoin Aziraphale, opening back up the audience’s view, and the angel felt like he needed to burst from his Earthly flesh, soar high over the oceans, the mountains, the cities. His skin was alive with happiness, his wings fluttering in the airy, light flow of joy in the air all around him.

“And now, if you would, your vows,” Aziraphale was able to wrangle himself together to say, stepping out from between the couple, as was tradition, and positioning himself slightly behind Arvin.

Reality rudely chose that precise moment to set in—as Aziraphale stood on a marriage altar, of sorts, staring over at his beautiful Crowley. The newlyweds dropped away, the cliffs, the archway, the people. All that remained was _Crowley—_stunning, selfless, adorable, love-filled Crowley.

His corporation was beautiful, it was true, but what Aziraphale was floored by, as he distantly heard two humans confessing undying love, loyalty, protection, and passion to one another, was the collection of everything Crowley had done to find himself here, to find them both here, free. He had sacrificed... _oh, _he had sacrificed so much just for moments with Aziraphale. He had endured tortures of every kind just to maintain any semblance of friendship with him. And through it all, the struggles and strife of 6000 years of pursuit, Crowley had remained the same demon he’d met up on that wall—kind but cynical, smart but gullible; a realist, above all, with a heart that screamed for fantasy, for love, for liberation.

And here they were, a small eternity later, and the image was the same—two humans, in love despite their hardships, a whole uncertain world ahead of them. And an angel and a demon, pensively watching, their own uncertainty rolling in like thunder. But this time it wasn’t a storm, it wasn’t six thousand years of keeping just far enough away, of denying what was so clear. Now it was real freedom—freedom to do anything and everything they wished, freedom to love, wholly and completely, without boundary or fear.

“...ziraphale?”

Aziraphale jumped as he was pulled back to reality, bride, groom, and demon all staring at him with degrees of worry on their faces.

“Gracious me,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “Beautiful vows, I was very taken by them,” he lied, throwing Crowley a brief, reassuring glance. In truth, he hadn’t heard a word of them as he stared at his lovely demon, their potentially glorious future playing out in those shadowed, rapturous eyes.

He stepped forward once more, laying a hand on both bride and groom’s shoulders.

“With the power vested in me by absolutely no one...” he began, to which raucous laughter followed, “I pronounce you man and wife. You may, if you so choose, kiss.”

Tears of happiness streaming down her beautiful, youthful face, Penny leaned in and snogged the bejesus out of her new husband. After, they pulled apart, taking a single step back each, the shutter of numerous cameras clicking frantically as they took the loose ends of the cords in hand, removed their others, and pulled the knot tight, forming a beautiful, striking infinity loop.

The crowd erupted into applause as husband and wife held up their cords for all to see, beaming. The feeling of love nearly forced Aziraphale over the side of the cliff—his soul sang with it, his heart stuttered, and his mind buzzed. He gasped, a hand to his heart, and within seconds, Crowley was by his side, steadying hand on his back and attentive, serpentine eyes trained on him.

He felt a very intense urge to tackle the demon to the ground, embrace him for hours, kiss him breathless until the sun went down. But that would likely take the focus from the newlyweds, so he bottled it all up. After all... he had eternity to shower his demon with love, eternity to shelter him with the proverbial wing. Eternity to _love him._


	66. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen
> 
> On this episode of Outrageous Amounts of Fluff... Crowley gets poetic and blames it on the wine. Spoiler alert... it's not the wine.

The wedding reception festivities were in full swing—it all started with the jumping of the Besom broom, which Aziraphale found a delightful little tradition, especially for a witch’s wedding. Penny had encouraged all of the guests to sign the broom, so that it could be displayed in their home alongside the cords.

After that, the party started, Crowley made sure of it. Aziraphale was fairly certain a small demonic miracle was spared to ensure the liquor bottles never ran dry. Either way, the pure joy in the air, from human, angel, and demon alike was astounding.

Crowley was much more sociable than Aziraphale, and spent the evening flitting from guest to guest, telling stories, asking questions, and generally being a damn delight.1 He did manage, however, to never leave Aziraphale alone for long. He was exceptionally talented at balancing his attentions, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he could love him more.

Once Crowley had made his way round to Arvin’s mum, and found out that her side of the family was Armenian, Crowley’s mischievous side kicked in, full throttle.

In true Armenian fashion (Crowley had spent a great deal of time in the country in the early 1900s, and took a major shine to the culture), Crowley began breaking dinner plates, throwing money at the newlyweds, and stealing Penny’s shoes. The point, Crowley tipsily explained, was for someone in the groom’s party to pay to have them returned, but within half an hour, and numerous offers of money, Crowley admitted that he forgot where he’d hidden them.

Aziraphale had smiled more, laughed more, been more content in the last two hours than he could recall being in the last 200 years combined. He enjoyed a lovely meal of prosciutto-wrapped grilled salmon and white chocolate/raspberry wedding cake, watched Penny dance with her new husband, watched Crowley get up to his pranks, and he sipped wine while simply enjoying the company of others (mingling was much easier after a glass or two).

He didn’t think he’d ever experienced pleasant exhaustion before. He’d always had to worry, had to temper his mood with thoughts of _why did you enjoy that so much, would heaven approve, you’re not acting very angelic. _Now, though, it all just mixed together with the wine to create a buzz in his brain and made him feel unreasonably, uncontrollably happy.

He found himself seated comfortably at one of the now empty reception tables (nearly everyone was on the dance floor), polishing off the last of his umpteenth glass of wine. Crowley had disappeared into the conservatory with a number of impressed guests, likely to brag about and/or threaten his work in front of an audience. The sun had gone down about 45 minutes prior, and Aziraphale was again blown away by Crowley’s thoughtfulness; he had, when he miracled the thing, lined the beams of the temporary tent with firefly lights, which were creating an ethereal, otherworldly glow about their little haven.

Aziraphale was grinning expansively as he watched a barefoot Penny giddily bounding around with the number of children who had been forced to come along with their families, when Crowley reappeared, flopping into the chair next to Aziraphale and heaving a great, contented sigh.

“Good, angel?” he asked immediately, summoning his own highball of dark liquid from the ether.

The wine was doing wonders for Aziraphale’s inhibitions. He turned to look at Crowley, promptly forgot he’d been asked a question, and stared unyieldingly.

“Wot?” Crowley barked, bringing a hand up to his own face. “Do I have something in my teeth? In my hair?! One of those wee shits was running about with whipped cream...”

“No, no, my dearest, I just... I was simply... you look so handsome tonight Crowley. Not just tonight... I could stare at you until the sun explodes...” he said dreamily, his tongue feeling only slightly numb.

“Oooookay, I think that’s enough of _that_,” Crowley drawled, leaning forward and plucking Aziraphale’s glass from his fingers, but no matter, he’d already downed the rest.

“I’m not that drunk, sweetheart...”

“Uhhhhh you just called me sweetheart, so I beg to bloody differ...”

“I can’t mix up the endearments?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Crowley finished, accompanying it with, of all things, a wink. Without parsing whether that wink was meant to counteract what Crowley’d said, Aziraphale promptly expelled the alcohol from his blood, taking extra care to not alert Crowley that he’d done so.

And perfect timing, too, as an opportunity arose that he wanted to be completely cognizant for.

The music slowed, a flowing, melodious ballad filling the tent. Those uninterested in a slow dance filed out, and Aziraphale rocketed to his feet.

Even through the tinted glasses, he could see how wide the demon’s eyes had just gone at being offered Aziraphale’s hand. His Adam’s Apple adjusted as he swallowed nervously, his brows pinching together; a gesture so recognizable it was almost painful. It was an expression Crowley made when he saw something he desperately wanted, but was warring with himself on accepting—keeping himself contained, inactive, _caged, _because he knew that accepting would endanger Aziraphale, be it physically or spiritually. It was the face of self-denial.

“Come on, love. May I have this dance?” Aziraphale asked, gently prodding as he kept his hand tentatively still on offer.

Crowley gulped again, paper-thin pupils jerking from Aziraphale’s face, to his hand, and back.

“B-but... you don’t... you don’t dance...” Crowley replied; a last-ditch effort to maintain the distance, maintain the status quo of the last 6000 years.

“_Didn’t_” Aziraphale corrected primly, topping it off with a smug little wiggle of his shoulders. “I didn’t dance. Plus, it’s only a slow dance, I’d hardly even call swaying back and forth _cutting up the carpet, _my dear.”

Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale was able to watch as the walls crumbled, not brick by brick, but all at once—the demon smiled, a relaxed, wonderful thing, and rose to take the angel’s hand.

“Cutting a _rug_, angel. The expression is ‘cut a rug’,” he said gently, allowing himself to be led onto the interlocking wood panels that made up the temporary dance floor. Aziraphale was distinctly aware of many, _many _eyes on them, but he simply didn’t care, not about a single one of them.

“Well, it’s essentially the same thing, isn’t it?” he asked, not really caring to win this particular argument, but noting that Crowley was stiff as a board and could probably do with a bit of reassuring, a bit of _normal. _“Rug, carpet?” he finished, turning to face the demon and taking the biggest leap yet.

He took Crowley’s left hand in his right, then grasped Crowley’s right, and guided it to rest on his own waist. The demon’s nervous swallow was practically audible, but Aziraphale ignored it in exchange for placing his own left hand on Crowley’s shoulder, and leaning in against him.

Crowley never answered the question, all thoughts apparently flown from his mind as Aziraphale began to sway easily to the rhythm, their faces a mere inch apart and allowing the angel to see straight through those dark lenses to the now blown-wide pupils beneath. Crowley’s body was still so tense it felt like cement beneath Aziraphale’s fingertips, and he gave a gentle, experimental rub of Crowley’s shoulder, reminiscent of the many encouraging back rubs he’d received during the ceremony.

“Relax, my dear. It’s just a dance,” he tried, rubbing Crowley’s shoulder again and squeezing the hand he was grasping.

Crowley nodded jerkily, notably not responding.

“Do you know how many times I’ve almost done this? How many times you caught my eye in a banquet hall or a coronation ball, stunning in your shades of black and slithering through the crowds with the grace of your serpent form?” he inquired, breaking the eye contact to spare Crowley the constant exposure and simply looking out over the dark cliffs, the moonlit waves.

The demon shook his head.

“Well I did. I had to be alright just watching, hoping you never noticed. I could never explain it away, if you’d asked... perhaps I could have just said I was being diligent about thwarting your wiles, but... it would have been a lie. I was simply enamored with you. Then, and always.”

“Angel...” Crowley practically whined, and Aziraphale’s heart warmed to feel the demon’s muscles relax and his head leaning against the side of Aziraphale’s.

Inhaling for courage, Aziraphale went on, much quieter now.

“It scares me, Crowley, my love for you. It is a great beast within me, and it’s been caged, chained, and muzzled for thousands of years. I’m...” he had to swallow down a lump in his throat before continuing, “I’m frightened of what it could do, once set free.”

He inhaled at Crowley’s neck, strengthened by that ever-familiar scent.

“Could it hurt you? Could it hurt me? Can I even control it? It’s vicious, mind, and... if I let it out...”

He was unable to continue, his voice catching and dying off at the very thought. Crowley pulled him closer by the hand on his waist, and Aziraphale stopped breathing. It was perfect, and intimate, and the only thing he’d ever really wanted.

“It’s not a beast, angel, I’ve got extensive experience with those,” Crowley spoke softly right next to Aziraphale’s ear as they continued to rock together. “It’s... it’s a flowering fern, neglected and starved of its basic needs for years. It’s wilted, but... all it needs is a little nurturing. Some good, direct sunlight. Some clean water. Rich soil.”

“And a few well-aimed threats?” Aziraphale asked with a wide grin, and Crowley chuckled, the sound more beautiful than any angelic choir.

“No, angel,” Crowley said, staggering determination in his voice. “This one, I’m going to spoil completely rotten. This one I’ll coddle and covet, whisper and sing to. Whatever it takes...”

Crowley stopped dancing entirely, pulling back to stare Aziraphale in the eyes. He even reached up and propped his glasses in his hair so Aziraphale could see his eyes in all their glorious honesty.

“Whenever you’re ready, angel. Be it beast or blossom, I’ll be here to nurture either. I...”

He swallowed, looking down bashfully then, his glasses threatening to fall. He looked back up, though, just in time.

“I had to lose Heaven to learn what heaven really is.”

Tears welled in Aziraphale’s eyes, and his hand instinctively gripped Crowley’s harder.

“Oh, what a poet you are, my dear,” he said, voice wavering with emotion.

Crowley grinned, that dashing, cool one he’d perfected, and shook his head, while at the same time beginning to sway again. Aziraphale was helpless to follow.

“Nah, m’just drunk,” Crowley said nonchalantly, but his voice was strong, his cheeks were not rosy, his pupils were not small.

“I don’t think you are,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning in and placing a kiss at the demon’s temple. Inhaling for strength again, Aziraphale continued, hushed and private, “I love you, my Crowley. Do you love me?”

A whimper escaped Crowley’s lips, the air of it tickling through Aziraphale’s hair, and then he was being pulled tightly against the demon, their entire fronts pressed together as they continued to dance.

“Yesss, angel. Yes. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 pun intended.
> 
> A side(or I suppose bottom)note: [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dbf8PYnzRdo) is the song I imagine them dancing to. If you listen close, you'll hear the line that inspired this entire chapter, which Crowley spoke to Aziraphale.


	67. The Misstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Mature, for sexual suggestion
> 
> CW for a panic attack.

Crowley took a long, luxuriating inhale of the evening sea breeze, watching as the last of the vehicles pulled out onto the dark gravel road and disappeared.

It was customary, so he’d heard, for the bride and groom to depart first, in a chariot marked “just married,” while onlookers threw rice. Or sunflower seeds, if you were feeling particularly eco-friendly, which Crowley had never really been. Hadn’t been unfriendly either. He’d maintained a sort of passive appreciation that was borne of being told by one’s superiors for 6000 years that respecting God’s Green Earth was against company policy. But he’d always _liked _the place, so he personally didn’t litter.

But Penny could be counted a lot of things, and _traditional _was never one of them. So, after the festivities of the reception died down, Penny and Arvin had stayed well past their last straggling guests, helping to pick up a plate here, a champagne flute there, until Aziraphale had had to physically shoo the two of them from the cottage with little tuts; “your bloody wedding,” “shouldn’t be minding the rubbish, at your _own bloody wedding!”_

So, all packed up, and a round of hugs doled out, Penny and Arvin had hopped in the old Cooper and been the last to vacate, waving gleefully from their windows as they headed for a honeymoon God-knew-where.

Crowley had felt the fizz and crackle in the air as Aziraphale blessed the car, but didn’t feel the need to step back from it. It was a familiar tingle, at this point, a pain he’d gladly welcome. It bore Aziraphale’s signature, his fingerprint, his divine radiance that Crowley hungered to be scorched by, devoured by. He didn’t even care if it caused scars—permanent damage. _Mark me_, he found himself thinking offhandedly. _Claim me._

As if sensing something in Crowley’s aura, Aziraphale moved in closer as he gave the newlyweds one final wave and dropped his hand to his side, where it gently collided with the back of Crowley’s. The angel’s fingers extended slightly, then, brushing the backs of Crowley’s knuckles with deliberate intention.

Events like these always got the angel so sentimental, and Crowley was completely prepared to drown in it for the evening. Especially considering it was Aziraphale’s penchant to release all that doting sentimentality on his demon companion. And after so many years apart, Crowley needed recharging—his Aziraphale meter was dangerously low, and the only cure was basking in his heavenly glow.

“What a lovely service,” Aziraphale said, his fingers still lazily caressing the back of Crowley’s hand and making his throat tingle with joy.

“Not really my scene, but... yeah. It was,” Crowley admitted, hard-pressed to find something he hadn’t enjoyed about it. He could still feel the reassuring weight of Aziraphale’s hands in his, his body pressed innocently against him as they swayed together.

“Well... that’s that,” Aziraphale said conclusively, pulling back and drawing Crowley’s focus to his own hand, now bereft of contact and wanting. “Best be getting in...” the angel continued, beckoning him as he took a step toward the cottage but he went no further until Crowley joined him by his side. Their shoulders knocked together as they leisurely strolled back inside, and Crowley couldn’t be bothered to find it anything other than monstrously pleasant.

“She did her best, but the place is still a bloody mess,” Crowley said as he branched off from the angel and made for the dining table, which was more rubbish than table at this point.

He was halted, however, by Aziraphale’s hand clasping back onto his, more firm and enveloping now, and Crowley turned back to give him a questioning glance.

“Leave it, love. We’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“But...”

_“Leave it.”_

Aziraphale’s voice was so quietly commanding—entreating, even, that Crowley simply nodded, allowing himself to be pulled down the short hall to the bedroom.

Aziraphale still wasn’t one for sleeping, after all this time, but on the occasions he found reason to do so, it was often due to large amounts of stress and exhaustion. Planning a wedding and hosting it, apparently, counted among them.

Crowley smiled lazily as the angel guided him into the bedroom, shut the door, and kicked off his shoes. He went for his own tie and collar, but found angelic fingers suddenly stopping him.

“Allow me,” Aziraphale said, his voice sounding drained. He must have been more fatigued than he was letting on.

Crowley nodded, dropping his hands to his sides as the angel worked his tie loose, pulled it off, and then went for the shirt buttons.

It was always a heart-stopping shock to be kissed by Aziraphale, and this time was no different—the angel rising to his tip-toes to press his lips to Crowley’s while his deft fingers continued to work the buttons undone and push the shirt off.

Aziraphale broke the kiss, smiling as his fingers curled beneath the hem of Crowley’s vest and pulled it up and off. It was a bit more brazen than the angel usually was, but he’d helped Crowley change into his pajamas before, so he thought nothing of it.

That is, until his lips crashed back into Crowley’s with much more force; teeth biting and tongue surging forward. Crowley whimpered, and full-on gasped into the angel’s mouth as he felt fingertips edge beneath the waistband of his trousers, popping the button open and unzipping.

Crowley tensed, his hands flying to Aziraphale’s arms to restrain... or still him, he wasn’t sure.

“A-angel... what are you doing?” he murmured, voice aquiver like autumn leaves.

Aziraphale did not respond, instead surged up again for another biting kiss. Crowley wanted to back away, keep questioning, but... _God,_ Aziraphale tasted like fine wine. Like raspberry wedding cake, and champagne. Like puffy clouds and sunshine. Like distilled _Heaven._

It was then that Aziraphale’s hand pushed, not down the sides of Crowley’s trousers, but down the front, lightly caressing his completely uninterested, didn’t-even-know-this-was-an-option Effort.

Crowley cried out and backed away like retreating prey, analyzing Aziraphale’s semi-hurt features.

“Are you drunk?!” Crowley yelped. He’d meant it completely literally, but realized far too late that it came out more in the vein of “are you insane?!”

Aziraphale gathered the bits of his fractured pride, setting his face back into an expression of semi-mischievous neutrality. “No, my dear. Completely sober, completely certain.”

“Ccccertain?” Crowley hissed, something in the back of his brain yelling and pointing to a blinking neon “you know what’s happening” sign, which he pointedly ignored. “Certain... about...?”

Aziraphale didn’t speak—instead walking forward to reach up and cup behind Crowley’s neck, pulling him in for another, much more chaste kiss.

“This, Crowley,” he whispered against Crowley’s lips as he pressed against him, _pinned him_ to the wall. “Us.”

Everything went blank: Crowley’s brain, his vision, his ruddy knees, which promptly buckled, but it didn’t matter—pressed between angel and wall like this, he didn’t go anywhere.

That blinking neon in Crowley’s brain suddenly morphed to form _shitshitfuckshitfuck, _and the rest of the office promptly caught fire.

“Uhhhh,” he whined, surprised he’d even been able to locate _that many_ of his words. The file cabinets of his mind that typically contained words were now brimming with nothing but _angel... lips... body..._

Appearing hopelessly endeared, Aziraphale leaned in, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s collar bone, and suddenly the neon sign had crammed itself into the file cabinets.

_“Sssshit... fuck, shit, Az...Aziraphale...”_ Crowley babbled, holding his hands out in an, ironically, Jesus-like t-pose, afraid to touch or even move. He’d been waiting 6010 years, 9 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days for this, and couldn’t have felt more unprepared.

Terror ripped through him like a hot blade. _You’re not ready, he’s not ready. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He thinks he does, but... you’ll hurt him. You’re too desperate, too passionate. You’ll scare him._

“Crowley?”

The word was painfully gentle, worried even, and Crowley slammed back into himself, finding his lungs burning and his hands shaking so bad they rattled against the walls.

“My love, what’s the matter?”

_You’re fucking this up, get it together, this is all you’ve ever wanted! You’ll worry him, he’ll back away, he’ll change his mind. Get your bloody shit together._

“Yeah, no, good, s’good. _I’m good. _M’fine. Yeah,” he stuttered, his hands rocketing off the walls to grasp Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley channeled every bit of self-control he had left, maneuvering the angel back toward the bed. The blast doors in his brain slammed shut, and the auto-pilot flipped on.

He crashed their lips together again, closing his eyes against the onslaught—the scent of Aziraphale’s special occasion cologne (a mixture of intoxicating rose, amber, and musk), the warmth of his skin so near, the press of his perfect, soft, welcoming lips. It was too much. It was going to make Crowley snap.

So he let the auto-pilot do its work; unfastening the angel’s bow tie, unbuttoning his waistcoat, going for the shirt.

His kisses were becoming frantic and hurried, and he could tell Aziraphale noticed—whimpering slightly and gently beginning to push against Crowley’s bare chest, which only shattered the blast doors and sent in more information he couldn’t handle—angel, warm fingertips, placed on chest, _need them._

“Crowley, slow down, my love,” Aziraphale said gently, and the panic ratcheted ten times higher.

_See?! You were right. You’re scaring him, you’re going too fast for him, he can’t handle you. He’s going to stop, he’s going to back away, he’s going to deny you._

Crowley cleared his throat, nodding quickly and lowering his gaze to the floor.

“Yeah, right, m’ssssorry,” he said, unable to keep his tongue from forking and sliding out.

Aziraphale didn’t immediately step forward, but instead of hesitating, he seemed to be doubling down: slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt, sliding it off, then removing his vest with much less care than expected. All of it hit the floor, and Aziraphale ignored the hell out of it, in exchange for stepping forward once again.

Crowley’s breath was punched from him as Aziraphale pressed against him, both hands coming to rest on his _hips, his bloody hips,_ anchoring him and pulling their bare chests together.

Fireworks went off behind Crowley’s eyelids, and he swallowed so hard he was certain the angel heard it. He was also certain the angel could feel the tremor wracking every single muscle in his corporation.

“My dear... may I?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley was vaguely aware that the angel’s left hand had abandoned his hip to rise up to the bar of his glasses. They paused there, waiting for Crowley’s approval.

The terror was cresting now—_he’ll see you, he’ll know. You won’t be able to hide it anymore._

Crowley swallowed convulsively again, having to wait for the wave of panic to die down before shakily nodding yes.

He kept his eyes downcast as the glasses were tentatively removed, exposing him more than any nudity would.

“My very dearest,” Aziraphale cooed as he tossed the glasses onto the bedside table. “Relax.”

“Ngk, yeah, right, I know. Ssssorry...” he whispered, still not meeting the angel’s eyes. He’d be done for if he beheld their perfection, saw the naked wanting, the unbridled love there.

“No need to apologize,” Aziraphale said, oddly calm as he brushed a hand reverently past Crowley’s cheek and into the hair at his temple. Where it usually calmed him, now it was simply honing his panic.

_Fuck, how is he so calm about this?! He’s the one who’s never done this before, why the fuck am I freaking out?! Just... get it together._

Crowley returned his lips to the angel’s, gentler this time, and insinuated his body forward. Aziraphale allowed himself to be led, guided back to the bed and laid down like an offering, a verdant garden to be explored, a _gift._

Crowley crawled on top of him, feeling every shift as the angel’s still-clothed leg brushed against Crowley’s inner thigh. He tried to settle, but the position he’d found himself in was just too much; Aziraphale, half naked and spread out beneath him, touching, kissing, _wanting._

_You have to be perfect. This could make or break everything. What if he doesn’t like it? What if you fuck this up? What if you could have made him want this, more of this, but you’re too bloody nervous, too bloody flawed, too bloody_ Fallen_ for this to be anything but doomed?_

“Fuck,” he cursed, hiding his eyes by dipping lower on the bed and fumbling manically for Aziraphale’s trousers with hands that shook so badly he couldn’t quite get a grip of the button.

One of Aziraphale’s hands came to rest in Crowley’s hair, but it only caused him to startle and jerk away from the touch.

_“Crowley... what’s wrong, my love? _Isn’t this what you wanted?” the angel’s voice asked, painfully understanding.

“Yes, yes, _fuck yes,_ it—I’m sorry, I’m sssorry, please let me... pleassse don’t... _please don’t...”_

_Please don’t change your mind. I know I’m a mess, I know I’m fucking this up, but please, please don’t cast me out of your bed, please don’t push me away like She did. I can’t—I can’t bear it again, not from you, I’d rather Fall a hundred million times more, than be cast aside by you even once, please please please..._

_“Please, what, Crowley?” _Aziraphale asked tenderly, carding his hand through Crowley’s hair once more and shattering what was left of the blast doors.

Crowley collapsed forward, his forehead resting heavily against Aziraphale’s lovely plush stomach as he let out a single, desperate sob. His entire body was quaking now, his fingertips buzzing with numbness and his throat on the verge of closing up.

“Come here...” Aziraphale quietly commanded, tapping Crowley’s shoulder blade with his free hand.

_No... nononono. This is where he stops this. This is where he looks in these monstrous eyes and comes to his senses, backs out._

_“No, wait, please, I can do this, I can do this, just... jusssst...”_

With a frustrated growl that completely drowned out whatever it was Aziraphale barked in return to the rather insulting implications buried within the words ‘I can do this,’ Crowley palmed at his own still uninterested Effort through this half-opened trousers. His heart was too busy hammering away with nerves to send any blood south, and Crowley was just raising a hand to ensure a rather miraculous erection when Aziraphale snapped.

“Crowley!” he commanded, with all the power, strength, and vivacity of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.

Crowley stiffened like a board, going rigid where he was still crouched over Aziraphale’s midsection, and closing his eyes. Perhaps if he didn’t see, didn’t _look_, maybe he could protect himself from the inevitable denial. Pre-treat the wound, as it were.

Aziraphale’s hand slid beneath Crowley’s right armpit, and with all the strength the Principality possessed, he hauled Crowley up to lie on top of him, face to face.

“Look at me, please, love,” the angel said, his voice so painfully soft and gentle.

Crowley’s lips opened before his eyes could.

“I’m sssorry, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry, I couldn—”

The angel’s arms wrapped tightly around him, pulling him against his chest in a suffocating embrace. Oddly, it started to help—as if Aziraphale had grabbed all the fractured pieces of Crowley, jammed them back together, and was dead-set on holding them that way.

_“Shhhhh shh shh,” _Aziraphale hushed him softly, one hand beginning to stroke up and down his spine, surely feeling the uncontrolled splotches of scales that now ran the length of it. “Nothing to apologize for, my dear, shhh, it’s okay, it’s alright. I surprised you, is all, I should have approached it with a bit more finesse. I was just feeling so... so... overwhelmed by all the love and devotion at this blasted wedding, and I needed an outlet, I needed... somewhere for all this love to go. It’s not your fault, please...”

“Bu-but... this _is not _how this was supposed to go, angel! I’m the practiced one, I’m supposed to be showing you how wonderful it can be, showing you how to _love someone, in the physical sense. _And... and I jussst... I ruined everything, always do. I wanted to show you, wanted you to know... _wanted to make it so good for you, I needed to, I...”_

His words failed him then, and he buried his head against the angel’s sternum, furious with himself.

“Shhhhh,” Aziraphale cooed again, turning his head in against Crowley’s and placing a kiss into his hair. “Oh, my poor Crowley, you’ve put so much pressure on yourself, you can’t possibly live up to your own standards, they’re too high. You must know, my dear, that... you needn’t be perfect; it needn’t be the best performance of your very long life. All I need is _you, _lovely. Just you.”

“But, I—”

“No, no more of that. Just relax, please. This doesn’t mean I’m no longer interested, this doesn’t mean the jig is up, _it doesn’t mean anything!_ But I can’t abide by you torturing yourself this way, expecting perfection of yourself, and completely terrified of any move you might make. I wish nothing for us but utter paradise; completely comfortable in one another’s arms and not _panicking _over each little slip of the tongue. Please, Crowley, a few deep breaths for me.”

Crowley obliged, taking first a very warbling one, then another, much more steady one. The last one was almost normal, and he was able to let go of at least some of the tension—his hands releasing the duvet from the tight fists he’d balled them into. Slowly, he was able to bring them in, wrapping Aziraphale up and keeping him firmly within his arms.

“Relax, my love,” Aziraphale whispered into his hair, his embrace loosening, but only to bring one hand up to cradle the back of Crowley’s skull and pull him harder against his lips. The other remained, stroking up and down the scales on Crowley’s spine and sending little bolts of pleasure through the nerve endings there.

And every time something spiked back through his mind—_oh, Someone, I’ve frustrated him_, _I started something I couldn’t finish, he must be so disappointed—_Aziraphalemust have felt it, whether it be in his muscles or his aura, because he would find a way to cool that fire, sooth the worry.

Soon enough, Crowley found himself fighting to stay awake, with his nerves burning raw from so much anxiety, and his mind and body exhausted from the day of wedding festivities. He knew he needed to push through, get back up, start over. Maybe this could still happen, if he could just keep himself in check, stay calm.

But the rhythmic pass of Aziraphale’s hands down his skull and spine was divine, if he could pardon himself for thinking so, which he did. The reassuring rise and fall of the angel’s chest beneath him was like a rocking pram—lulling him into near-bliss after just a few minutes.

And when Aziraphale tilted them to the side, laying Crowley down, snapping away all but both of their pants as he sidled up close to gather him up again and pull the sheets over them... he hardly noticed, for he was already dreaming of exactly this;

Being held by his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you worry folks, it's exactly as the title implies: a misstep, because these two morons skipped the whole "communication" part again. But the dance ain't over yet.
> 
> I'll try to update very soon. Don't mean to tease ;-)


	68. The First of Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *cue The Office meme: Oh my God, okay, it's happening, everybody stay calm*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Explicit, for explicit sex

Aziraphale didn’t sleep long—maybe two or three hours—after he’d spent half the night holding Crowley tightly, stroking his mussed hair, and ensuring his panic would not return.

Aziraphale couldn’t deny his own guilt: he should have told Crowley that he was ready.

_“My dear, I think I’m ready... no, I know I am. I’m ready to be physical with you. This lovely wedding, all this boundless love and devotion has gotten me positively in the mood, as the humans say, and I’d very much like to spend the entire evening breaking the bedposts.”_

Sure, it probably would have left the demon stuttering any number of incomprehensible noises and hurrying to pick his jaw up off the floor... but at least it was a fair bit of _warning._

He’d thought the spontaneity would be romantic, although he hadn’t actually planned the spontaneity bit. He’d simply taken the demon’s hand, and upon seeing the bedlam of their little cottage post-wedding-festivities, thought, _“I’d very much like to make this kind of lovely mess of my lovely demon.”_

The fear was gone, the apprehension was gone. It had started, really, when he watched Penny up on those cliffs, confessing undying love and lifelong partnership to her new husband.

Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, but he’d actually missed the newlywed’s vow-sealing kiss...

Because he’d been watching Crowley; melting at the unabashed happiness on the demon’s face, wondering how he could plaster that look to those handsome features for the rest of time.

But springing it on Crowley like that had absolutely been the wrong way to go about it. Crowley had descended into such intense panic that Aziraphale could see it—the poor dear was shaking so bad, all over, that the bed creaked with it, and his chest couldn’t work hard enough to bring him gasping breaths. He hadn’t even been aroused, struggled to become so around wave after wave of such debilitating anxiety over his inability to _perform perfectly, be perfect_ for Aziraphale.

But it was what he could _feel_ coming off of Crowley, in greater and greater quantities, suffocating his aura and bleeding out into Aziraphale’s, that truly worried him.

Crowley had been utterly, completely, overwhelmingly _terrified. _More so than he’d been when the Apocalypse threatened, more so than when Satan came for him. And it had crippled him, making him unable to even speak the words until Aziraphale hauled him up and held him fast.

“Oh, my love, I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the early morning light, watching Crowley’s motionless, anxiety-free face while he slept.

He enjoyed watching Crowley sleep. The demon’s persona melted away, his fears melted away, to reveal something truly at peace; the worry lines at his brows evened out, the tight press of his normally-anxious lips went slack. And Aziraphale could see those beautiful eyes moving behind his eyelids, knew he was softly dreaming.

He leaned in, knowing exactly what to do.

First, he pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to the demon’s forehead. He followed with quick, loving pecks to his high cheekbone, his jaw, his neck.

The demon stirred, and Aziraphale was quite determined that his love might awaken to a bombardment of easy, tender kisses and caresses that would keep him in that wondrous, relaxed place between sleep and awake.

“Mmmm, ‘Ziraphale...” Crowley grumbled, turning from his side to lie on his back, and the angel was ecstatic—more exposed canvas upon which to paint a masterpiece of love.

He shifted, propping up on an elbow and following the dip of Crowley’s long, elegant neck with his lips.

“G’morning, my dearest,” he whispered, and felt Crowley giggle through his nose at the tickle of Aziraphale’s words against his sternum.

Aziraphale followed the demon’s collar bone back up to the other side, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder, but needing to half-straddle him to get there.

That was when Crowley’s eyes blinked open, still putting the early-morning sunshine glow that filtered through the lace curtains to shame with their brilliance.

“Angel, what...” he garbled sleepily, thankfully not yet recalling the disaster of the night before.

It did nothing to deter the angel, who grinned, leaning back to place a much longer, more passionate kiss to the demon’s lips.

He lingered there, feeling Crowley starting to liven up the longer his lips moved.

But Aziraphale didn’t want him too awake, not yet, as he would likely descend into another spiral of anxiety. And Aziraphale had a plan for how to avoid that.

“Nothing, dear. Close your eyes,” he asked, and smiled when the demon slowly did so, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he sunk further into the downy pillows.

He continued his line of kisses, keeping them innocent and quick, but began whispering faintly to him.

“I remember, just here, where that Egyptian’s blade sliced through your shoulder,” he said, kissing the nonexistent scar delicately.

“And here, that Roman’s spear,” he said, kissing a spot below the clavicle.

Crowley was definitely waking up now, squirming lightly and stretching out his muscles as he made a small, adorable sound Aziraphale might hazard to call a purr.

“And just here,” he said kissing against Crowley’s heart, feeling it quicken against the sensitive flesh of his lips. “That Nazi bullet.”

He angled up once more, trying to be discreet as he leaned over Crowley, bracing an arm on the other side of him and sliding a leg between his.

Of course, Crowley reacted—going tense and holding his breath—but Aziraphale powered on, determined to work his way over every inch of his poor love’s body, erasing every unpleasant thing ever done to it, and replacing it with pleasure, with _love._

“And here, that American’s bullet,” he said, kissing down to the fourth rib on his left side, and having to crawl a bit under the sheets to get there.

“Az-Aziraphale...” Crowley gasped, worry evident in his voice as both his hands came up to dig into the angel’s hair. From the contact, Aziraphale could tell they were shaking again.

“Shhhh,” he whispered, leaning back up and taking Crowley’s left hand from his hair. He met the demon’s eyes, and there was indeed mounting fear there.

It was rather cute; Crowley’s anxiety toward this revolved around making _Aziraphale _happy, making him enjoy himself, making sure _Aziraphale _wasn’t afraid. And the demon was so convinced of his own inadequacy in that regard, that the prospect of any physical intimacy now terrified him.

But Aziraphale _was happy_, _was enjoying himself, wasn’t afraid in the slightest._ In fact, he was luxuriating in exploring Crowley’s body, wiping out all traces of pain and torment. There needn’t be any pressure, any expectation, any _point_ to all of this.

“Hush, my darling,” he said reverently, caressing the back of the demon’s hand as he tried to stare his surety into Crowley’s sunflower eyes. “I’m just indulging in a bit of nostalgia. Surely you can permit me that?”

The last sentence was a bit mischievously coy, as he kept his eyes locked on Crowley’s but dipped his head down to kiss his knuckles.

“Like these. I remember them bloody, after you punched Goebbels squarely in the jaw. However did you explain that away to head office?”

Finally, Crowley relaxed, barking a quick burst of laughter.

“Didn’t have to, really. As long as it didn’t jeopardize my bloody position in the inner circle, they were all for a bit of schwere Körperverletzung.”

“Your German still tip-top, I see?” Aziraphale asked with a smile, but Crowley was unable to answer, inhaling sharply as Aziraphale turned his hand over and placed the most ginger of kisses to the center of the burned-in pentagram Lucifer had left there.

He gently abandoned Crowley’s hand to the mattress, where it immediately fisted into the sheets.

“Angel, are you s-”

“No, none of that,” Aziraphale said, a bit more bossy than he’d intended, but it worked to silence the demon’s insistent doubt. “There’s nothing to question, here. I’m simply exploring. Close your eyes, for me, love?”

Crowley hesitated, but dropped his head back to the pillow and closed his eyes again.

Aziraphale smiled, returning to his task.

“Oh, this one I almost forgot,” Aziraphale said, first caressing below Crowley’s lowest right rib with the pad of his thumb, then kissing lightly and reveling in the jerk and full-body shudder it caused. “A French longsword.”

“Ruddy Duke of Anjou. I was only trying to help,” Crowley replied, and the amused tone to his voice spurred Aziraphale on.

“Well, c’est la vie,” he said as he deftly maneuvered his way on top of Crowley, settling between his legs and propping both elbows on either side of his ribs. Crowley whimpered, but didn’t speak, so Aziraphale continued with the ruse.

He migrated even lower, to Crowley’s right hip bone, where it protruded over his boxer-briefs, which he also lovingly caressed first before kissing.

“This one was a samurai’s blade, was it not?” he asked, trying his best to get Crowley’s attention back. His touch on the demon’s hip had made him begin to tremble, and he’d brought a hand up to bite onto.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, desperate to keep the demon’s panic at bay, keep him in a state of relaxation.

“Er, yeah. I mean, no. It was a Ronin, actually. That one,” the demon finally squeaked out, removing his hand from his teeth and dropping that one, too, to fist into the sheets.

Aziraphale nodded, knowing he needed to migrate elsewhere, and fast.

He tossed the sheets back a bit as he scuttled down Crowley’s body, noting the way he whined at just the faintest touch to his thigh.

“Your first broken bone,” he said, leaning in to kiss at the demon’s right knee.

Crowley giggled again, and it went right to the pleasure center in Aziraphale’s brain, making him feel giddy and light, like he could float away on a gentle breeze.

“There’s a reason I don’t like horses,” Crowley responded playfully.

“Quite,” Aziraphale replied with a grin, migrating even lower still, to cup beneath Crowley’s Achilles’ tendon, running a thumb over his bony ankle.

“Caligula,” he said, but his stomach turned at even speaking the name. Crowley, too, shuddered, so Aziraphale placed his kiss, and quickly moved on.

He switched to the other leg, working back up and hoping the best for this monstrous leap he was about to take.

“Your most recently broken bone,” he whispered above his thigh, using both hands to cage it in and placing one last kiss over the miraculously healed femur.

He could easily recall the way Crowley had buckled to the floor in front of Lucifer, collapsing in a pool of his own blood. He also recalled the desperation he’d felt, the sheer horror at watching his demon suffer. He recalled the long days he’d spent healing Crowley, doting on him and trying to show him, prove to him, _make him understand _how loved he was. It hadn’t worked then, as they were both still operating under Heavenly and Hellish habits.

But it would work now.

He crawled back up Crowley’s body, bracing on either side of his shoulders as he leaned in to kiss him. Crowley keened into it, cupping the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him harder against his lips.

He allowed his weight to ease down on top of Crowley and found that all his efforts, his caresses and kisses, had resulted in a very specific kind of Effort on Crowley’s part.

The demon’s eyes shot open, but Aziraphale made sure he found nothing but pleased relief in his features.

“That was the point, dear,” he whispered, carding a hand reverently through ginger locks.

And just like that, he flipped the switch in his own brain.

He recalled Crowley telling the story of his first time, of turning on his libido like a damned light switch. He recalled Crowley saying it hit him like a flood, washing over him and overwhelming him with sexual desire. He recalled Crowley saying it scared him, the intensity of it, and he’d had to pause to get control of himself.

Aziraphale’s wasn’t quite the same, not entirely. Of course he did feel the rising heart rate, the increased sensitivity in every inch of his skin. But it began like a candle in the darkness; starting out small and growing more and more powerful the more it was fed.

And he fed it with_ Crowley;_ continuing to kiss his lips while he allowed a hand to explore the demon’s chest. Now with full intention, he found a nipple and worried at the hardening bud with a couple of fingers.

The effect was inspired, and made the flames of Aziraphale’s desire grow; Crowley broke the kiss, throwing his head back on the pillow and letting out an obscene but truly breathtaking moan. Mozart never stood a chance against that harmonious sound, nor did Bach, or Beethoven, or Chopin, and Aziraphale endeavored to hear it as much as angelically possible.

The new position opened up Crowley’s sublime throat, and Aziraphale shifted his weight, now sucking and biting at that taught, statuesque flesh, and going for the other nipple. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to use his teeth on Crowley, he certainly never wanted to hurt him, but it appeared it was just the thing.

Crowley let out a badly trembling breath toward the quilted headboard, and his hips barely rocked up against Aziraphale.

The candle erupted into a bonfire, and Aziraphale felt what Crowley must have been talking about—the movement caused blood to begin rushing... well, lower, and Aziraphale could actually track its course as his chosen Effort began to swell.

It was new, and surprising, even a bit strange, but certainly not uncomfortable, although it did cause him to let out a startled and strangled little yelp.

Crowley froze, and Aziraphale could feel the tension returning—the demon’s muscles went bowstring tight, and his breaths quickened to hurried, punched-out gulps of air.

Aziraphale headed it off, gasping against Crowley’s neck, “I’m alright, love, I’m alright. Just a little surprised, is all. It’s okay.”

Crowley relaxed minutely, but began fussing at Aziraphale’s hair and back.

“You’re... are you enjoying it? We can stop, angel, anytime; just say the word and we’ll stop.”

“What word?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley descended into a fit of giggles.

Oddly, it only made Aziraphale’s Effort stronger, swelling more and beginning to ache, just a little.

“Figure of speech, my lovely, daft angel,” Crowley drawled fondly. “But the humans do use them, sometimes, if they think they’ll need to break the mood. Do you... er, do you think—”

“No, my darling boy, I won’t be needing that. I’m very much enjoying the _mood.”_

He punctuated the claim by testing a roll of his hips, and his still-clothed cock gently grazed against Crowley’s.

The bonfire turned to exploding fireworks, and both angel and demon held each other’s gaze as they both cried out with pleasure.

It was a miraculous thing—to see that dazed and lustful look flash across Crowley’s exquisite eyes, to know it was aimed _here_, at him.

Finally, _finally,_ confidence flared across the demon’s features, and he held Aziraphale tight as he eased them over, flipping their positions. Crowley straddled him, sitting up but keeping their hips together, their equally excited Efforts.

The demon braced himself on Aziraphale’s chest, then began rolling his hips torturously slowly, rutting them together. The sound of the fabric pants rubbing together mingled with Crowley’s wanton little sighs, and the sight of him like that; allowing his head to roll on his shoulders, his eyes to flutter closed in ecstasy... it was almost too much for the angel.

“Oh, Crowley... Crowley...” he begged, placing a hand on each spread thigh and feeling the rippling muscle as he continued to move.

_“Please, love... I... I want...” _he stuttered, knowing exactly what he wanted but unable to articulate it.

“More, love, please,” was what he settled with.

Crowley stilled, rolling his head back around and staring intently at Aziraphale through half-lidded, almost intoxicated eyes.

“More?” he asked, his hands shifting on Aziraphale’s chest to play delicately with the sparse white hairs there, and _oh_... _that was new._

Aziraphale gulped, certain the sound of his throat working could be heard in town.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, dragging his hands inward from Crowley’s thighs, over his thin, bony hips, to the elastic waistband of his pants.

Crowley shuddered violently as Aziraphale toyed with them, pushing the waistband lower and lower until it hit... _resistance._

“You’re sure?” Crowley asked, his voice unsteady and his lower lip quivering.

“Crowley, you needn’t keep asking. Trust me, my love, I am _quite _keen. If I find anything disagreeable, you will be the first to know.”

Crowley giggled. As if there was anyone else he would tell.

“Now, would you _please _get these barriers out of the way? _I want to feel all of you.”_

He hadn’t expected those brazen words to bubble up, and by the little shiver that passed through Crowley, he hadn’t either.

But he did as he was bidden, rising to his knees and shuffling back a bit to hover over Aziraphale’s thighs. He held Aziraphale’s gaze as he hooked a thumb in his pants, biting his lip as he did, and it was probably out of nervousness, but it did _wonders_ for Aziraphale.

He felt himself stop breathing as Crowley dragged his pants down to reveal himself, his Effort long and lean like him, and standing so erect it almost touched his stomach.

“_Beautiful_,” Aziraphale gasped, not even caring to make it a full sentence.

Crowley colored under the praise, turning away as he shifted his weight to pull the pants down and off.

It was then that a hint of fear bubbled up in Aziraphale, as Crowley crawled back over him and reached for his waistband.

“Crowley, I... what if... you don’t... think that... _I can’t hurt you, can I?” _he peeped, his voice small and weak and petrified.

Crowley’s hands stilled, but his fingers began caressing the little swell of flesh over the angel’s hips, and it was _oh so distracting._

A flash of Crowley’s old self darkened his eyes, and he grinned wickedly.

“Best pain I’ll have ever felt,” he quipped.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but to let out a snort, but he quickly tamped down his amusement.

“Be serious, Crowley,” he said, feeling his voice break as the demon’s hands abandoned his hips and splayed out on his stomach, rubbing and caressing up and down, barely playing with his pants when he reached them.

“I... I don’t know, angel. But...” he paused, hooking two fingers into the waistband. “I’m willing to find out. _Are you?”_

The way he said it made Aziraphale completely forgive Eve. He wouldn’t have denied that serpent anything either.

Words having suddenly burned up in the fires building within him, Aziraphale simply gulped and nodded enthusiastically.

He watched with rapt attention as Crowley unwrapped him—curling those long, spidery fingers into Aziraphale’s waistband and pulling it down.

Aziraphale groaned as the fabric fought against his now terribly hard Effort. It was a strange feeling, one he’d never contended with—he’d of course had the anatomy around since the Victorian era (it made suit fittings rather awkward if he didn’t), but he’d never had to force his clothing off.

It felt awkward, like bending his arm the wrong way, but when Crowley finally freed him, and his erection flung back toward his belly, he was rather impressed.

His own cock was vastly different from Crowley’s—where the demon’s was thin and tall like him, Aziraphale’s was... he wouldn’t say _smaller, _per se, but... proportionate. Stockier. And while he hadn’t put any actual thought into the shape and size of it when he’d manifested it in 1837, he was rather impressed with how different it was when hard.

“Very strange, these human-shaped bodies,” he mused as Crowley dragged his pants down and off.

“They are, angel. But amazing, too, as you’re about to find out,” Crowley replied, suddenly crawling up his body like a predator and making him shiver.

The demon paused on his journey up, dropping little nibbles here and there, and showing Aziraphale that, although he’d thought he couldn’t be any more aroused, he was horribly, wonderfully mistaken.

_“Ah! Oh, that’s... Cro-oh! Ley,” _he babbled, feeling his effort begin to pulse and ache.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley asked, not pulling away from Aziraphale’s chest and letting his lips and breath ghost over the saliva-wet skin.

“Is, er... is it supposed to ache like this?” he asked, wondering with a small degree of worry if asking technical questions would kill the mood.

Crowley licked a stripe from sternum to jaw, firmly answering _that_ question, as he nibbled at the angel’s earlobe.

“Yes,” he whispered, and Aziraphale shuddered again, his arms curling around to Crowley’s sinuous spine, glad to find it smooth and fleshy rather than scaled. Not that he disliked the scales, in fact he found them rather endearing. But their appearance usually indicated a state of extreme stress, and he certainly didn’t want that.

“It’s cruel, I know,” Crowley continued, trailing a line of kisses up to Aziraphale’s earlobe. He would have thought it would feel strange. Odd bit to play with, ears, but it was _wonderful_, hearing Crowley’s sucking breaths and labored words so close, so strong. “You can thank the ruddy _creator _for that. It’s your body telling you to _do something about it.”_

Aziraphale grinned, angling his head up so Crowley could work his way under his jaw, licking and kissing all the way to the other ear, which he lavished in the same treatment.

“Would you?” Aziraphale asked, after some time of letting himself be pampered by his demon.

“Would I what?” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale’s neck.

The angel turned his head so he was only centimeters away from Crowley’s face, meeting this golden eyes and staying locked onto them as he purred,

_“Do something about it.”_

Crowley went visibly pale, so quickly that Aziraphale began to worry. But, apparently, it was a good sign.

“Oh, angel, you’re gonna have to stop being so good at this. Otherwise you’ll discorporate me on the spot, and I should think that would be rather inconvenient for both of us,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale grinned genuinely, reaching up to brush a fallen sprig of hair from Crowley’s forehead.

“I’d move Hell and Earth just to find myself right back here,” he whispered.

Crowley’s expression went blank for a split second, before he was surging forward for a rough, demanding, biting kiss. The demon’s tongue, now long and forked, slid across his bottom lip, then slowly inside as Aziraphale relented.

Crowley tasted of red wine and rum, spices and smoke. His kiss was everything he was—spicy yet sweet, hard, and then soft.

Shifting, Crowley lowered himself back down as he had been earlier, but this time there was no fabric to keep them apart.

Both of them whimpered into the kiss as their Efforts rubbed against one another, and Aziraphale began to see stars, which started to overwhelm him as one of Crowley’s hands lowered between them, taking both of them in hand.

The pressure made the ache simultaneously worse and better, and Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

“I know, angel, I know,” Crowley whispered, his eyes analytical and trained on Aziraphale. Testing the waters, Crowley began to stroke his hand up their lengths.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what was better—the slow, pressured pass of Crowley’s hand, or the hard, velvety sensation of Crowley’s erection against his. Either way, it was spectacular.

Aziraphale’s hands flew up to grasp Crowley’s upper arms for purchase, and he slammed his eyes shut in an effort to focus his mind.

It did focus—on the perfect pressure moving up and down his cock, squeezing minutely at the tip and making that fire within him burst to life like a certain flaming motorway. He felt himself on the precipice of something, something building and burning, and he knew what it was. He did read.

“Cro-Crowley... _stopstopstop, I’m gonna come...” _he whimpered, unabashedly throwing in the clarification so that his demon would know it only meant _stop, for now, not for good._

Crowley did stop, and Aziraphale could feel the grin on his lips as he pressed them to his cheek.

“What now, angel. Tell me what you want,” he whispered, and Aziraphale answered honestly.

_“Everything. All of it. I want to make your body sing, I want to hear the beauty of your coming unraveled. I want to forget what we are, what we were. I want to be so terribly _human,_ I want to be what they are. I want to be a part of you, Crowley, and I never ever want to break apart again.”_

“Fucking _shit, angel!_” Crowley whined, turning his head away and burying it in the pillow to Aziraphale’s left. “You can’t... can’t just say things like that!” he grumbled adorably into the pillow.

“Oh?” Aziraphale responded, able to make out Crowley’s rose-red blush just beyond the cream colored pillowcase. “And why not?”

Crowley made an unintelligible noise into the pillow, and Aziraphale was so hopelessly endeared by it that he decided to have mercy, and _not_ make the demon articulate his noises into words.

“Tell you what?” Aziraphale said, stroking the backs of his knuckles down Crowley’s arm and admiring the goose flesh that arose in his wake. “Why don’t we do whatever it is _you like best_? As it is, you’re the more practiced one, er... the _only _practiced one. _Show me, my dear, how you like to be touched.”_

That seemed to be another one of the things that Crowley found boundlessly sexy, because he buried his head further into the pillow and made another sound that resembled a cawing raven.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how, but his blunt honesty was somehow translating to effective bedroom talk. Who knew?

After a moment of composing himself, Crowley emerged from the pillow, kissing Aziraphale’s shoulder and smiling dopily at him.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his knuckles down Crowley’s arm again.

“Nothing,” he replied, one hand curling and uncurling on Aziraphale’s chest. “Just... happy.”

The declaration rang in Aziraphale’s ears like an orchestra, like the bells in St. Peter’s. He smiled, leaning in for a chaste kiss and drawing on the courage it gave him to snap his fingers.

Crowley startled out of the kiss, pulling away and looking around for whatever frivolous miracle Aziraphale had performed, and coloring when he found the bottle of lubricant lying on the duvet.

“We’ll need that, yes?” he asked, continuing to stroke Crowley’s arm rhythmically. He didn’t know what it was Crowley ‘liked best,’ but seeing his darling demon smile like that, giggle like that, declare that he was happy... well, it simply didn’t matter. Aziraphale would give up everything—his fine clothes, his trips to the Ritz, his wings, his powers, even his bookshop—just to ensure Crowley stayed that way. It was a funny thing, really. Heaven had felt it necessary to test his loyalty with a series of cruel, merciless tests, when really, the only motivator he needed was _Crowley._

_Want me to bless some human’s wedding? Dangle Crowley’s smile before me. Want me to tempt a nonbeliever toward the light? Give me even the slightest hope of gentle touches with this beauteous creature. Want me to erupt with divine radiance, spreading the love of all of Heaven for miles to come? Let me kiss his lips and show him what he means to me._

Overcome with sudden passion, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s thin hips, pulling him higher up his chest. Crowley squeaked with surprised delight, and Aziraphale felt every inch of his skin react to it—pricking with goose flesh and begging to be touched.

“Show me, love, what to do next,” he asked, watching as Crowley’s expression fell to one of lust-drunk determination, and he nodded.

He sat up on Aziraphale’s belly, and the angel couldn’t help but ogle him—dark bitten bruise forming on his neck, chest heaving with labored, excited breaths, and his cock, still impressively hard and purpling at the tip with desperate need. For a moment, Aziraphale considered touching, but his hand was taken and directed elsewhere.

Aziraphale took a moment to recall the research he’d done since returning from Rome. An obscene amount of research, actually. He’d purchased every book on sex he could find, read about every scenario, studied every anatomy textbook he could get his angelic hands on. He’d even purchased raunchy romance novels, and on one desperate occasion, a Cosmopolitan magazine.

He studied male/female sex, he studied male/male sex, he studied female/female sex. He studied how to stimulate someone without the use of genitals. He studied oral. He studied kinks and fetishes. He studied, studied, _studied._ He’d wanted to be ready, when the time came, and he wanted to be prepared for anything and everything Crowley might want. Because he was, and had been, prepared to give anything and everything to Crowley.

And while he now had the knowledge that told him which option Crowley was opting for, his practical application was sadly lacking.

But it was alright, because as he noticed his own hand trembling where Crowley was pouring lube onto his fingers, he found that Crowley, too, was shaking quite badly.

“I’m scared too, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, placing his free hand on the demon’s thigh and finding it trembling too. He saw the moment of panic in Crowley’s eyes, and hurried to continue. “But it’s a good kind of scared. I want to be out of my element, I want to be wonderfully confused. I want this, with you. I want you, Crowley. Now... show me.”

Crowley nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his momentary dread, and directed Aziraphale’s hand between his legs.

Aziraphale angled the pad of a few fingers up as his hand was guided, grazing the silk-soft skin of Crowley’s balls and making the demon whine and shudder. But he was guided further back, and Crowley rocked his hips down to place Aziraphale’s fingers at his tight entrance.

“Just... just there,” Crowley muttered, his whole body trembling now. “S-ssstart with one. I’ll t-tell you wh-what to do.”

Crowley’s anxious stuttering should have been worrisome, but Aziraphale found it nothing but adorable—to know that his demon, despite being extremely experienced, was just as nervous as he was.

“Shhhh, Crowley, _I’ve got you,”_ he cooed, gently beginning to stroke the demon’s quaking thigh as he slowly pressed his pointer finger inside.

Crowley sucked in a breath, slamming his eyes shut and biting his lip, and the gorgeous sight made a flash of heat rocket down Aziraphale’s spine, gathering pointedly in his loins.

“Like this?” he asked quietly as he pushed in to the knuckle.

“Yep, now just—“

He didn’t need the next bit of instruction, already beginning to move his finger in and out.

“Yeah, you got it. Just like that,” Crowley groaned, his head falling forward as he luxuriated in Aziraphale’s ministrations.

The angel had to admit it was a little odd, but not nearly as odd as it was charming; being one with Crowley, feeling his tight muscles encasing his finger, grasping at him, holding him inside. It made another flash of heat pool in Aziraphale’s Effort, and he felt himself twitch at the thought.

He had to be told when to add a second finger, but after that, he found that he simply allowed instinct to guide him, easing a third inside his lovely, debauched demon, who had begun rocking his hips again and riding his angel’s fingers.

“You know, I read about this,” Aziraphale grunted, his voice uncharacteristically gravelly.

“Yeah?” Crowley croaked, still rocking on the angel’s fingers and opening himself up.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied coolly. “And, you know, I found something interesting that I think explains why you like this so much.”

Before Crowley could inquire as to what that might be, Aziraphale applied his newly acquired knowledge of anatomy (and perhaps a tiny, guiding miracle) to curling his fingers forward, easily locating that little gland inside his demon’s beautiful body.

Shocked, Crowley stopped moving, but it was fine, because Aziraphale slowly kept curling his fingers against that spot and watched as it reduced his demon to a quaking, pleading mess.

Crowley was nothing short of a masterpiece; barely able to stay upright as his breathing quickened, his muscles tensed, and his beautiful, kiss-bitten mouth hung open in a silent scream of ecstasy.

Aziraphale had only a moment to lament that he hadn’t done this sooner (6000 years sooner, to be precise), when Crowley pitched forward, bracing his arms on Aziraphale’s chest and pulling himself off of his fingers.

“I’m... I want... _need you,”_ Crowley gasped, his abdominal muscles spasming once and making Aziraphale twitch with need.

“Need you too, my dearest, darling one,” Aziraphale groaned out, bringing his hands up to grip Crowley’s thin waist. “Show me what you need.”

With horribly trembling hands, Crowley grabbed the bottle of lube from the duvet, shakily squirted some in his right palm, and wasted no time in reaching for Aziraphale’s Effort.

The angel whimpered at the contact, his penis now incredibly sensitive after so much neglect. He jerked as Crowley worked the liquid onto his length, generously coating him.

The demon paused, leaning in and placing a kiss that tasted of need and care—his lips still and cautious against Aziraphale’s.

“You’re sure, angel?” came the anxious little squeak from his wondrous, beautiful, perfect demon.

Aziraphale softly squeezed Crowley’s waist with both hands, leaning in to rest their foreheads together.

He thought of the agony this extraordinary creature had been through; the torment of a horrific Fall, of wondering and crying out _why_ with those marvelous lips. Of the horrors humanity had wrought over time, and his often forced role in those horrors; the tremendous weight of the guilt on his shoulders. Of 6000 years of loving, so passionately and so broadly—loving humanity, loving their ingenuity. Loving this place, this vast Earth that housed and held him when no one else would. Loving _an angel_, with all his limitless heart, and yet being berated and scolded, punished and tortured for it by a Hell that disapproved, a Heaven that forbade it, and an Earth he clung to desperately, in the hope that somewhere out there, there existed a chance, an inkling, a morsel of possibility for his love.

And he thought of God; knowing what a breathtakingly astonishing being She had made in this angel, what an incredible contradiction of curiosity and kindness, mischief and playfulness. Knowing, and casting him down anyway.

_She may not have wanted you anymore, but I do. I do!_

“Never been more certain of anything in my very long life, my love,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Crowley released a frantic gasp that was half-sob, half-relief, taking Aziraphale in hand once more and lining him up.

The exhilarating heat and pressure was nearly debilitating, as the tip of him was pushed inside, but he couldn’t concentrate on it long; his focus drawn by an eruption of ebony feathers and displaced air.

Aziraphale marveled at the breadth and power of Crowley’s magnificent pitch-black wings. Of course he’d seen them hundreds of times now, but there was something different about them now—the rainbow sheen of them as the early morning glow glistened off each and every vane. They spread wide, trembling and shaking as Crowley sat astride him, taking him in deeper and deeper. They barely flapped once as Aziraphale finally bottomed out, and the force of it tousled curtains and sheets alike.

Everything came to a screeching halt, then, as the momentousness of this clearly hit both of them; Crowley still as a statue and training his intense goldenrod eyes down on Aziraphale beneath him.

Aziraphale, for his part, felt like his heart was soaring in the clouds far above them—his staggering relief and adoration for being _close _to Crowley, being _part of him _stealing his breath and filling his mind with nothing but Crowley, _Crowley, Crowley!_

One of the demon’s eyebrows rose minutely, silently questioning, seeking, hoping, ‘_good, angel?’_

Aziraphale gave him a wide, shining grin as he caressed up the demon’s thighs, squeezing curiously at those marble-carved hips in answer... _‘yes, Crowley_.’

And with that, Crowley’s too-long, too-dexterous serpentine spine did what it did best; rolling down on him in sensuous, delicious thrusts.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath in surprise, gripping the demon’s hips hard as he contended with all he was feeling—a building pleasure the likes of which he’d never felt (not in food, not in books). But it was more than that, more than just a delicacy to be enjoyed. What he was finding the most luxurious was watching _Crowley _take his pleasure from him. Watching him unravel like a pulled seam—his mouth hanging open, his chest heaving, his sinfully skilled hips beginning to quicken and wring even more bliss from Aziraphale’s newly-awakened body.

Crowley was a glistening vision, all angles and artwork, and Aziraphale felt, quite suddenly, that even though he was inside his lovely demon, one with him, it was just too far away; a colossal precipice separating them with all the desperate need and aching of 6000 years.

With a heady grunt, Aziraphale shot upright, sitting up and wrapping his hands around Crowley and splaying his hands out on his wonderfully chiseled lower back to pull him closer, harder against him.

The motion plastered them together; their lips centimeters apart, their chests touching, Crowley’s oh-so-hard erection caught between their bellies and making him whine.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but crash their lips together, and the combined feeling of Crowley’s tight heat on his cock, and his long, wily tongue on his own was enough to make the flames of Aziraphale’s desire bloom to a raging wildfire. They had become art in motion—a concentric circle of give and take; Aziraphale, locked inside his demon, and Crowley’s tongue in Aziraphale’s mouth. A constant flow of energy through two opposing conduits. _Perfection in practice._

He felt something shift—a displacement of atoms and a rush of wind—and realized that his own wings had materialized quite without his intent.

They broke their lips apart for a moment, turning as one to watch as they both brought their wings in and gasping as the primaries touched, pushed, intermingled. Like yin and yang—separate, but one.

Aziraphale smiled at the mixed sensations, turning back to watch Crowley’s every reaction—his eyes, glittering with awe, following the feathers. His lips, opening and closing as they sought for the words to describe it.

The angel leaned in, pressing his lips to the demon’s cheek, whispering the words of Whitman into that flushed skin,

“_And your very flesh shall be a great poem...”_

Crowley’s breath hitched, and he turned back, his arms slithering around the angel’s neck, holding him and raking long fingers through his plush curls. This new position made it harder for Crowley to tilt and rock his hips, but he adjusted, simply using his strong thighs to rise up and slide back down the angel’s Effort.

Both of them moaned against the other’s lips at the new sensations; their bellies rubbing together and stimulating Crowley’s trapped cock, their feathers brushing through the other’s, sending nerves firing at the pinions, their lips locking and flowing as Crowley moved, still sensuously slow and careful.

Boldly, Aziraphale slid his hands up Crowley’s sloping spine, and into the plush, soft down at the base of his wings, gently pressing into the muscles.

Crowley violently broke their kiss, throwing his head back in sheer ecstasy and singing his praises in shouted moans towards the heavens. Aziraphale found himself hoping all of them could hear it—could start to learn what real love looked like, sounded like.

The sight of Crowley like that, though, sent Aziraphale dangerously close to climax, his hips jerking up viciously twice, but he spared a tiny miracle to calm his flesh, make it last longer. This meal had just begun, and he’d only just started to feast.

“Uhn, fuck, angel, c-can I?” Crowley pleaded, his horribly trembling hands migrating down the back of Aziraphale’s neck and hovering near his wings. The angle wasn’t quite right, being seated straddling Aziraphale’s lap, for his hands to reach the joints, so he had gone for the pinnacle, the height of the radius.

“My dear, you needn’t ask permission to touch me ever again,” Aziraphale groaned, punctuating his enthusiasm by beginning to massage pressured but cautious circles into the sensitive tricep muscles in Crowley’s wings.

“_Jesus, fuck, angel,”_ Crowley yelped, the movement of his hips stuttering for a moment before he calmed himself. “Y-you gotta stop doing that, unless you want to end things right now.”

“Well...” Aziraphale replied, adopting a hint of mischief in his voice. “How many consecutive times can the humans do this?”

Crowley giggled, his hands finally working their way beneath Aziraphale’s tertiary feathers and making his whole body spasm with pleasure.

“Humans?” Crowley asked, pointing his blunt fingernails inward and scratching lightly against the thin skin beneath the feathers. Aziraphale let out a wavering breath against the column of Crowley’s throat, feeling his wings extend in reaction. “Depends. Three or four. Maybe five. Us, though?”

With that, he gripped the leading edge of Aziraphale’s wings, using the new anchor to begin pistoning his hips up and down.

_“Probably... could go... forever,”_ he whimpered, letting his head roll back again.

“_Don’t... tempt me... you wily serpent...” _Aziraphale grunted between thrusts, lavishing Crowley’s neck in licks and kisses, and capping it off by biting just barely too hard on the meat of his shoulder.

Crowley growled, but it devolved into a surprised little gasp. The demon seized up, his hands stilling on Aziraphale’s wings and a hissed breath leaving his lips.

It was then that Aziraphale realized what had happened—Crowley’s warm spend smearing in between them.

“Sssshit, fuck, I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I wanted to last longer, for you, I wanted to come together...”

“Shhh, hush, my sweet. Whoever said we wouldn’t?” Aziraphale asked, glad that he’d staved off his own climax earlier. Now he could wrench another, maybe a few more from his stunning demon before they were through.

Pulling Crowley tightly against him in preparation, Aziraphale quickly miracled away the mess between them and spoke roughly into his sternum, “I’m going to flip you over, mind your wings.”

Crowley’s ebony lengths snapped closed against his back, and Aziraphale fairly spun them, depositing a now-giggling demon on the bedspread, watching as his wings extended once more beneath him, spreading well beyond the confines of the not-inconsiderably sized bed.

Aziraphale had accidentally fallen out of the demon’s body as they shifted, and now found himself hovering over Crowley, caging him in with arms and legs and wings. He held the demon’s gaze as he took himself in hand, twitching slightly at the sensitivity, and slowly pushed back inside that tight wet heat.

“So gorgeous, my angel,” Crowley grunted, his voice uncharacteristically tender and soft as a hand rose up to cup at Aziraphale’s cheek.

It was terribly fond, and well out of character for Crowley, but so genuine it made Aziraphale’s heart ache, and his already painfully hard member swell even more.

Aziraphale tentatively began thrusting, not quite certain of his own movements just yet, but finding that his body knew what it wanted, and it wanted _more of Crowley._

The demon whined at the new angle, reaching down to leisurely stroke at his flagged but already refilling Effort.

Aziraphale found him even more ravishing like this, spread out beneath him like a banquet, a feast, and it spurred him to begin moving just a hint faster.

All at once, years and years came flooding back, to this very cottage, this very bedroom, and Aziraphale’s throat nearly closed up as he recalled words he’d been too afraid to say to Crowley... then.

“My dearest, my beloved, _my Crowley,” _he whispered, leaning down for a quick kiss to silence any protests that might arise to the endearments. “My greatest treasure, my gift from God. I... _I love you. _Like Aristotle loved learning, like Galileo loved the stars, like Shakespeare and his words.”

Crowley’s eyes widened in recognition, and Aziraphale was glad to see another full erection in his periphery.

“Never again will you wonder if you’re loved. Never again will you question your own worth. Never, ever again, will you look upon me with any hint of doubt as to how deeply I love you. You’re not Heaven’s, not Hell’s. You’re _mine_, my love, from now until eternity.”

He’d expected the sappy, romantic words to make Crowley laugh or bristle, but instead he slammed his eyes shut and covered them with a trembling hand. A soft sound emitted from behind it, a sound like... sobbing.

“Az-Aziraphale, I...” he mewled, his other hand working on his erection faster.

Aziraphale again recalled that very first trip to this quaint little cottage, remembered an incident when grooming the demon’s wings.

Careful not to let his whole weight down on them, he placed both hands on the underside of each of Crowley’s wings, caressing into that delicious sweet spot he knew resided there.

Crowley nearly howled, his back arching up off the bed and his head thrown back in rapturous bliss. His hand faltered on his cock, but then sped up exponentially.

“L-love you, I do, _I love you, Aziraphale_.”

The angel felt tears brimming in his eyes at the glory of it—loving, and being loved in return, by he who had been told he couldn’t. Those words stung the demon’s lips, his tongue, or so he’d said, and yet he still said them; accepted the pain in return for the pleasure.

Aziraphale leaned in closer, questing for Crowley’s mouth as the heat began to build again, quicker and quicker with each thrust into that delirium-inducing heat and pressure, rapidly soothing whatever burn might reside on Crowley’s lips with his own.

“Fuck, angel, ri-right there, please,” Crowley begged, tugging frantically on his cock now and rocking up to meet the angel’s fevered motion. “It’s perfect, _you’re perfect. _It’s like you were made for me, made to... _fit... inside me... like you’re part of me...”_

His words trailed off as Aziraphale adoringly stroked at his wings again, bringing him to the cusp of complete euphoria.

“Per...haps I was,” Aziraphale groaned, feeling that cresting wave, that singeing explosion within him and not daring to smother it this time.

Crowley’s free hand desperately reached out, winding around Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him down for a biting kiss, then to simply press their foreheads together.

“Angel, _my angel... m’gunna come. You’re gunna make me come...”_

Aziraphale’s wings began gently pumping, thrusting his body harder into Crowley on each and every push of his hips. Their primary feathers brushed on each pass, and Crowley’s were positively _vibrating_, like the rumble of a certain vintage car.

“Me too, love, _so close,” _Aziraphale whispered, curling his hands against Crowley’s sweet spot over and over and over, feeling himself begin to brim and overflow with divine passion. In fact, it wasn’t all within him, as a yellow-gold glow began to emit from his flesh, from his hands. Crowley reacted—but not in pain, not even close. His feathers actually began to puff up where Aziraphale was stroking them, his quivering legs wrapping tightly around Aziraphale’s thighs to angle him more perfectly into his prostate. They both shuddered in ecstasy, the warm glow of an angel’s rapture enveloping and saturating the entire bedroom, the entire _countryside, _until finally, blessedly, they both erupted into pleasure.

The force of it made both of them cry out, as Aziraphale felt Crowley’s inner walls tightening and spasming and keeping him deep inside as he spent himself within his perfect, precious demon. His demon, whose love was being written all across his chest in long, hot, script-like spurts. His demon, whose body was jerking and writhing beneath him in absolution, whimpers and moans falling from his lips in an orchestral rhapsody that Aziraphale would quite literally kill to hear again.

And again.

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just need to clarify: Aziraphale is very aware that Crowley is anxious about pleasing him, not anxious about having sex, and that's why he shushes him; he's trying to eradicate Crowley's self-doubt. These two are very aware of each other's auras and can glean things from each other. Crowley is very much DTF, but understandably nervous about finally doing this with the one person(shape) he's always wanted.
> 
> As humans, I don't recommend aura reading. Communication is key, folx.
> 
> Also, this was almost chapter 69. Wahoo.


	69. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: teen+ for references to sex

Crowley became aware of several things at once as he slowly woke.

First was the fact that there was no light on the other side of his eyelids, telling him night had fallen. Of course it had, when they had made love four more times after their morning session, until neither of them could muster the strength to go again, and they collapsed, exhausted, into each other’s arms in a nearly destroyed bed.

Second was his body—thoroughly, _painfully_ loved; his bum well used, his hips sore from being gripped, and little aching beacons all over his skin where he’d been bitten, or had bruises sucked into his flesh. He could feel his wings still out, that tender spot on the underside reminding him of the desperate hands his angel had buried there.

And third was the muted, half-real divinity he felt all around him, signifying the presence of his angel blanket, and not his actual angel. But it was fine. Aziraphale didn’t lounge in bed the way Crowley did, and he’d likely risen to make some tea or seek out a book. He’d come back. That much was fiercely clear now—he’d always come back.

Crowley stretched languidly, feeling that rush of blood as it flowed over each and every bite mark, each and every crescent-moon shaped indentation from a well-manicured fingernail. He cherished them, wouldn’t miracle them away. Hell, he might miracle them to _stay,_ so he could stand before his mirror and remind himself _this is where my angel loved me._

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open to find the bedroom saturated in complete darkness, but the door propped open and the honey-colored hallway light spilling in to cast soft shadows over the bed.

_The bed where we made love._

Crowley couldn’t help the giddy grin that spread his lips at the thought. He knew his old self would slap him silly if he saw that goofy, lovestruck smile on his own features, but his old self didn’t know what it was to be _loved like this. _So his old self could fuck right off.

He groped around on the bed for a moment, still feeling the angel’s lingering warmth. It was absolutely _littered _with feathers, both pitch-black and angel-white, and Crowley could feel a blush rise to his cheeks. It looked like a couple of birds had brawled here, which... hadn’t they?

He picked one blindly—a small, tertiary feather— and brought it up close to his face to fiddle with it, but paused as realization sunk in.

His blood turned to ice, his skin flushing cold and his wings habitually twitching.

_It was grey._

He was already desperately sobbing; gasping for air he didn’t need as he viciously threw the sheets off and clambered from the bed.

_“A-angel! Aziraphale!”_ he choked, rocketing from the bedroom with the feather clutched in his shaking fist.

The angel spun around where he stood in the kitchen, wearing a pair of awful tartan pajamas, clearly caught off guard by Crowley’s volume and panic.

“Crowley?!” was all Aziraphale had time to ask before Crowley’s knees gave out and he collapsed to them at the angel’s feet, desperately grasping those awful trousers.

_“Y-your wings! Sssshow me your wings, angel!”_ he hissed, gulping air like a drowning man.

“M-my wings? Crowley, whatever has you in such a sta—”

_“Do it now, angel! Please, please, please...” _Crowley desperately begged, and before even a second passed, there came the sound of displaced air and fluttering feathers.

Crowley stumbled hurriedly to his feet, frantically analyzing the angel’s every feather—grasping his shoulders harshly and turning him, which prompted a shocked little exclamation. He abandoned all pretense, shoving his hands into the feathers and scrupulously checking them. Aziraphale yelped at the sudden intrusion, but didn’t stop him.

_“White... they’re... they’re all... white...” _Crowley mumbled, more to himself than to Aziraphale.

“Well... _of course they are,”_ Aziraphale tutted, pulling his wings closed against his back and turning to face Crowley and fix him in a confused but very sympathetic gaze.

Crowley found that, the more he beheld the angel’s pearly white wings, the more he was able to calm—his breaths slowing and his violent trembling beginning to die down.

He raised his fist, still clutching an ashen, smoke-grey feather.

“I f-found... and it’s..._ it’s grey_, so... I... _I th-thought...”_ Crowley stammered, trying viciously to fight off the images of Aziraphale’s elegant wings on fire, his wonderful, beautiful, otherworldly lips, that only this morning kissed all doubt from Crowley’s mind, twisted in a scream of_ ‘why?!’_

Aziraphale surged forward, wrapping Crowley up so tightly that the pieces of him started to meld back together; the flames of his doubt smothered down to a dull, dying simmer. A ferocious sob escaped his throat, quite unbidden, and Aziraphale squeezed him even tighter, if it was possible.

“Oh, no, Crowley, hush now, shhhh, it’s alright. I’m not Falling. I love you, desperately, painfully, with all my heart, and She would never, _ever_ punish me for that. Shhhh, it’s....”

Aziraphale’s words halted then, and curiosity got the better of Crowley, as he pulled back slightly to take in the angel’s wide eyes and startled lips—barely parted in a look of mild alarm.

“What... _what is it, angel?”_ asked Crowley warily, his panic threatening to bubble back up.

“They’re... _they’re yours, my dear!”_ Aziraphale gasped, his eyes pointed just past Crowley’s shoulder, to his wings.

Crowley jerked his head to the side, seeing the lighter color in his periphery and having to raise an arm to look below it at that spot... that wonderful spot Aziraphale had caressed to bring him to climax, and when he did, he’d... he’d...

“Oh, _oh!_” Aziraphale gasped, clearly not thinking as he reached under Crowley’s arm to touch the ashen feathers there.

The same warm, tickling sensation flared through Crowley’s wings and into his spine, and he wailed, leaping back and away from the angel instinctively before remembering that _it didn’t matter anymore._

“Oh, that must be where I... when I...” Aziraphale stammered, pointing to the feathers. “I was overcome with divine passion, and...”

With a flash of heat, Crowley recalled it; balancing on the brink of his undoing, his angel moving inside him, around him, _everywhere._ Aziraphale had begun to glow, in his ecstasy, and it had focused in his hands where they were fisting and stroking through Crowley’s feathers. And when he came, when he released all that pent-up divine energy, Crowley had been flooded with it; a pinpointed moment of clarity that burned so good it immediately tipped him into a rending, quaking, full-body orgasm.

“Oh, Lord, I... _I didn’t hurt you, did I?!”_ Aziraphale choked, a hand held out between them but not daring to touch.

Crowley couldn’t help the frantic bark of laughter that escaped. _Hurt me? HURT ME?! I came so hard, I’m pretty sure I owe all of Earth an apology!_

“No,” Crowley said fondly, reaching out to take that hovering hand and bringing its palm to his lips. “No, angel, you didn’t hurt me.”

Aziraphale settled then, pulling his hand from Crowley’s and using it to wrap him back up in a swaddling hug.

“Oh, my dear, that’s good, that’s... so good. I, erm... I’m sorry I left you alone, I so wanted you to wake up warm and safe and loved...”

Crowley brushed a hand up and down Aziraphale’s back, daring to fiddle with a few feathers and glad to hear the angel sigh happily.

“I did,” he interrupted, turning his head in to take a deep breath at the angel’s temple, comforted by that familiar scent of tea and old pages.

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, but just knew he was blushing.

“Right. Well, I got up to make some breakfast...” the angel continued as he pulled away from the hug and motioned to the stove, where a few pans had been set out, but nothing was in them yet.

“Angel...” Crowley said fondly, looking to the clock on the oven. “It’s 9pm.”

Aziraphale looked surprised, actually turning to look out the glass patio door to find that, yes, it was indeed nighttime.

“Oh... rather...” he said, adorably embarrassed, but rallying quickly as he turned back to face Crowley. “Well, time is a human construct, as is the belief that breakfast is to be had in the morning. So... er... breakfast?”

Overcome with devotion, Crowley simply smiled, leaning in to place a sweet, humble kiss to his angel’s dithering lips.

“Yes, angel. Breakfast,” he said, leaning away by only a few centimetres.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale responded, his eyes going somewhat devious. “Although... and not that I mind in the slightest, but... you’re very naked, my dear.”

Crowley pulled back, looking down at his still very nude body. Any embarrassment he might have felt was quickly washed over by the intoxicating sight of his slightly bruised hips, the love bites and hickeys marking his chest, stomach, and thighs.

“Oops,” he said, not even really meaning it, before snapping and clothing himself in his black satin pajamas.

“Do you know, I located Penny’s shoes?!” Aziraphale said excitedly as he turned back to the kitchen proper.

“Oh?” Crowley asked, following.

“Yes. In the _icebox_, of all places.”

Crowley snorted. “Figures. Only place I didn’t look.”

***

Aziraphale wasn’t bothered in the slightest by the fact that his enjoyment of his breakfast was hindered because he only had one hand to use; the other resting on the table, a demon’s cool palm clutched lightly but surely in it.

He had the South Downs Observer laid out above his plate of fried eggs, sausage, beans, and toast. It didn’t matter that the paper was some 12 hours old, the news in the South Downs was so sparse, it would keep for days.

The patio door had been slid open, the midsummer evening air blowing the curtains inside just a bit. It was comfortable for Aziraphale, but Crowley had needed his angel blanket, and now sat, comfortable and content, wrapped in it across the table.

Some daft bird was singing just outside, apparently oblivious to the fact that night had fallen, and birds should be asleep in their nests. It was enchanting to Aziraphale, though, as the little thing’s song was mimicking the one his heart had been singing all day.

He peered up from his paper, finding his demon staring unyieldingly at him—his eyes wide and stricken, his lips thin and taught. He didn’t appear to have touched his breakfast or his coffee.

Aziraphale instinctively stroked his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles a few times, and the only reaction it prompted was a quick set of blinks.

“My dear, what’s the matter?” he cooed softly, watching as Crowley’s Adam’s Apple bobbed once with a convulsive swallow.

“D-” Crowley started, but had to pause and clear his throat through, what seemed like, a swell of emotion.

“D’you think...” he said, his voice so quiet, Aziraphale was certain he’d have missed it if he were human.

“D’you think you, erm... all those years ago, when we... talked about this... you said... you said you weren’t certain it... it would... be something you... _would want to do. Permanently.”_

Painful realization began to settle in Aziraphale’s mind like the very thick darkness surrounding their little haven.

_“And I know I said I could live with that, but I can’t, I can’t... I can’t, angel, can’t live without you, like this, I ca-“_

The poor dear’s words had descended so quickly into soul-deep sobs, that he pulled his hand back and buried his face in it.

Aziraphale’s heart very nearly shattered; Crowley must have been tormented by this, from the moment he rose from the bed. Tortured with thoughts of _‘he’ll never touch me like that again’_ as Aziraphale obliviously made eggs, _‘he’ll never love me like that again’_ as Aziraphale pattered out to retrieve the paper from the end of the drive.

“Oh... _oh, Crowley, no, my love, don’t cry...”_ Aziraphale struggled to speak past the swelling of emotions, and he surged out of his chair to kneel before his lovely demon.

Grasping both Crowley’s hands in his, he took a moment to raise them to his lips, pressing quick, frantic kisses to each knuckle, one after the next.

When he looked up, he was glad to see the sudden influx of adoration had halted his love’s sobs, stopped the slow flow of tears.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale began, choosing his words very carefully, for they had never been more important.

“Let me put it this way; before I’d ever tried food, I didn’t feel a need for it, a _drive_ for it. I never experienced hunger. I never had cravings. And then I came here, to this wondrous Earth, and I tried it.

“Now, let me be clear—I _still don’t experience hunger. _But you know me... craving is my middle name. Or last name. Or what have you.”

Crowley broke down a bit and chuckled, but once the light of his mirth died down, the anxiety clearly returned.

“But just because I tried human food, doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and start munching on the grasses, the trees. Certain things interest me. Others do not, and _I feel truly divine, for the first time in a very, _very _long time. _I was finally permitted to _love you, to let you love me._ I can’t even put into words how happy I am right now—to have shown you what you mean to me, to have seen what a true masterpiece you are when unleashed in all your glory.”

He paused, swallowing hard and looking down at their hands. “And while I won’t ever feel _hunger, _I crave things…”

He looked up to hold his love’s gaze with every ounce of ethereal conviction he possessed, which turned out to be enough to make him begin to glow as he had that morning.

“_You. I crave _you_, my dear. In all things, Crowley, and I’m so... so sorry it’s taken me this long to realize that._ I want all of it, every little speck on the whole spectrum of human sexuality. I want to bring you to rapture beneath my fingertips, every single day, if that’s what it takes to show you how much _I love you.”_

He hoped his point was clear, but he also knew there was no harm in reiterating.

“_Of course, Crowley_. Of course I want to. For you, with you, my love, I will do anything. And not just because you want it. I get pleasure from your pleasure, my darling, and I’ll spend every pointless breath I ever take making you happy.”

Crowley’s lower lip began to tremble, but he inhaled hard, clearly overwhelmed, as he turned his head away and closed his eyes.

“Get up, angel, you... you shouldn’t be kneeling... for me,” he squeaked, his voice weak and troubled.

Aziraphale sighed at the monumental task he saw before him—now that Crowley had love, convincing him he was worthy of it.

“My love...” he said, rising a little higher to reach for Crowley’s chin and gently force his gaze. “This is _exactly _where I belong.”

Finally cracking a little, Crowley quickly leaned in to kiss Aziraphale.

It started innocent and chaste, but built slowly to a deep, sultry pass of lips and tongue.

“There we are,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips, once he was certain he’d kissed away every remnant of uncertainty. “Doubt has no place between us, not anymore. Now, eat your breakfast, it’s getting cold!”

Aziraphale rose to his feet, passing a few knuckles sweetly over Crowley’s cheek as he returned to his seat and placed his hand back on the table, palm up, beckoning.

Crowley took it.


	70. The Honeymoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, strap in. 24,000 words of completely uninhibited, shamelessly self-indulgent smut. I imagined that these two would be incredibly pent-up and repressed, and now that they don't have to be anymore... ho boy, are they going nuts. Enjoy.
> 
> If it wasn't obvious: rated Explicit. Graphic sex, dom/sub undertones, and a wheel of fortune-style disregard for genitalia. Really just a pick your own adventure of sexual situations. 
> 
> There are some teeny moments of anxiety in there, but everyone is learning to use their words. Finally. Only took em 6000 years.

Crowley was blindsided by the fact that, every time he looked at him, Aziraphale was even more angelic than the last. Like now; pausing to look back at their little cottage, all cleaned up from the weekend’s festivities, and as quaint and secluded as ever.

The gentle sea breeze was flowing through the angel’s puffy blonde locks, his cute little bow tie, and his long tan overcoat. His skin was glowing, but not angelically, just... radiant and flawless as it always was. His cheeks were rosy and round over that small, habitual but relaxed smile. And his eyes... _Satan, those eyes._ The shine of the sun off the ocean was nothing, the glint of stars was pathetic, the reflection on the silver of the Bentley’s grill a sad replica. Nothing on Earth, Hell, or Heaven would ever be so stunning.

He looked at peace, but he’d been awfully quiet this morning. For a bit, Crowley wasn’t worried about it. After all, a LOT had happened this weekend that required introspection. But, as it usually did, his anxiety leapt at the silences—_what’s he thinking of? Is he regretting? Has he changed his mind? Should I say something? Should I not? What does he want? Can I continue to touch him, or does he need space? This is all so new to him, I should give him his space, his time to think. Stupid, really, to be so needy. Just... leave him be..._

So he’d pattered about on his own as the two of them cleaned up from the wedding; mainly using miracles. The beautiful archway, the large white tent, the tables and chairs were all banished to whatever ether they’d initially been pulled from.

But a few things, Crowley had decided to do by hand. Namely, their bedroom.

_Their bedroom_.

It made him shudder to think of it that way, but it was really true. He knew that nothing that had happened yesterday made it any more _theirs_ than the last eight years of time spent together in it—redecorating it, sleeping in it, reading in it... but for some reason his brain was now willing to accept it. _Their bedroom._

He’d painstakingly made the bed, his throat tingling at every little heated image that came to mind as he did. He’d cleaned up the mess of feathers, one by one. And if he’d saved one—a flawless, pure white one—then no one would be the wiser. He pulled the shades and curtains, turned off lamps, closed the door.

Crowley’s heart sank when Aziraphale had said it—_“my dear would you take me for a short drive? Nowhere in particular, just... just need some time to think...”_

They had initially considered heading back to London—after all, they had no more reason to stay out at the cottage. But both had soured at the idea, and it was clear they both wanted to stay, just for a little longer. Crowley floated the idea that, since Penny was on a two-week honeymoon, the two of them should stay for that amount of time, and then head back. His heart definitely hadn’t fluttered at the angel’s excitement, certainly didn’t do backflips in his chest at the idea that, on some level, it was now like a honeymoon for them too. Definitely not. That would have been _very undemonic._

But Aziraphale’s flat, hard-to-read face as he asked for a drive had felt heavy, like the falling of a gavel, and it had spurred his anxiety, closing off the room where Aziraphale had loved him so passionately, where they’d become one being, where they’d been so open, so _raw,_ so vulnerable with each other, even if it was just for a short drive.

Which was why, even though the angel looked content beyond words, standing there and basking in the early morning air of the Downs as they headed for the Bentley, Crowley couldn’t help but swallow down a lump of dread.

He cleared his throat as the two of them sat in silence through the winding, Kincade-like landscape of the Downs, and spared a look over at Aziraphale. It only fueled his rising hysteria—the angel sitting rather rigid, eyes distant and lost in thought, his hands wringing in his lap like they did when he was nervous about something.

_Fuck, this was what he was worried about. That something fundamental between us would change, if we slept together, and he was bloody right! Say something! Anything! Put him at ease, ask if he’s okay! You’re ruining it again._

“Is...” he began, shocked at how loud and intrusive his voice sounded in the (oddly) Queen-less car.

He decided to soften the shock of the broken silence by reaching for Aziraphale, but he paused halfway there, the panic beginning to bubble and roil.

_Don’t touch him. He’s clearly nervous about something, probably our physical intimacy, so touching him is absolutely, 100% the wrong thing to do right now..._

But Aziraphale noticed his hovering hand, and smiled so sincerely that Crowley felt reassured, at least for a moment, and reached behind the angel’s neck, resting it there and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Is everything alright, angel?” he asked, scared to know the answer but needing it anyway.

“Oh? Oh! Yes, my dear, very alright. I’m sorry, how long have I been thinking?”

He peered out the windscreen at a passing road sign.

“Southwater?! Oh, good grief, so distracted, me. Sorry, love. Yes, I was... er... rather obsessively contemplating all the options.”

“Options?” Crowley asked, giving Aziraphale’s neck another squeeze and delighting in the way he smiled and briefly let his eyes fall shut in serenity.

“Yes, my dearest.”

Crowley didn’t miss how he’d been addressed as_ love, _and _my dearest_ in the span of thirty seconds, and it made the lump of anxiety in his throat begin to shrink.

“Well, you see, most humans are rather restricted by the hand they’re dealt, but... but _you and I?!_ Oh we’ve got so many _options! _We can switch around... oh, I’d be _quite keen on that_, certainly, to have you inside me...”

It was at this point Crowley twitched so bad he nearly careened the poor Bentley off the A24, but Aziraphale didn’t even notice—he’d already begun, to Crowley’s delighted horror, listing off all the _options_, as it were.

“And the other configurations, my lord! We could try vulvas, or one vulva, one penis! We could try two vulvas! Oh, that would be... _oh, I like that idea. _And the positions! Oh, we could work through the entire Kama Sutra! And with each of those configurations! Think of the possibilities! How positively _marvelous!_ And our mouths, and hands, and... oh, I’ve always just _adored_ your hands, my sweet, such lovely long fingers, and_ so soft,_ despite what one might expect for a demon such as yourse—“

Crowley wasn’t sure how they were still on the road, with the way he was now gaping at the angel, eyes plastered to the side of his face. Perhaps Jesus had taken the wheel, but considering the vehicle’s inhabitants and topic of conversation... he doubted it.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley found that, as if by the slashing of a flaming sword, his anxiety was nonexistent—replaced with shock, awe, and giddy excitement.

Somehow, even as a smug look overtook the angel’s features, Crowley was able to wrangle back in his self-control.

“What... _have I done?”_ he asked lightheartedly. “I’ve created a monster!”

Aziraphale giggled, the sound always ringing like bells and making Crowley’s hand twitch on the steering wheel.

Crowley had never had the foresight to see a discorporation coming, but what Aziraphale did next sent up warning flags, flares, raid sirens, and flashing copper lights.

His perfectly manicured, beautiful hand slithered over the center console and rested high on Crowley’s thigh.

“Yes. You have,” the angel positively _purred_, and it did horribly naughty things to Crowley’s brain. “Does that _frighten you, Crowley?”_

He punctuated the statement by squeezing gently but with clear intention on Crowley’s upper thigh.

Just barely able to find the wherewithal to do so, Crowley yanked the steering wheel to the side, slamming a foot on the brake and guiding the Bentley, as best he could, onto the side of the road. It did so in glorious fashion, tossing up a small cloud of dust as it rumbled to a stop next to an outcropping of bushes.

Crowley let out a warbling breath as he stared down at the angel’s hand, realizing his own was still clutching Aziraphale’s neck like a lifeline.

As it had a tendency to do, his anxiety flared back up.

_Let go, you’re hurting him!_

He went to yank his hand back and apologize, but the angel stopped both; grabbing Crowley’s wrist, and replacing it on the back of his neck before unbuckling his seatbelt. He shifted in his seat, reaching for Crowley’s own seatbelt.

A shiver travelled down the demon’s spine as he came to terms with what was happening.

“Wh-a... angel, y-”

“Hush, love. My silence on the drive has obviously stressed you, and I’d like to show you that I’m sorry for that.”

Crowley swallowed hard as his seatbelt retracted, and the angel leaned in to begin unbuckling his overpriced belt.

“But... Aziraphale... we haven’t... we’ve not... really...” he stuttered, worried about the angel’s inexperience. Surprisingly, they hadn’t done any oral the previous day, and he didn’t want the angel thrust into too much, too fast.

_Is he just doing this because he thinks he should... or has to, now that we’ve broken that barrier? Is this how he thinks I want him to calm me down?_

“Yes, I know we’ve only just begun to explore this. But my dear... just because something is novel, doesn’t mean it should be enjoyed in moderation. Do you remember when I first had sushi?”

The sound of his zipper going down resounded like a train horn, but Aziraphale wasn’t giving him a moment to sink back into his anxiety.

“Why, it’s all I had for a month!” the angel said excitedly, raising a hand to press Crowley’s fingers on the back of his neck down harder.

“Keep your hands where they are, dear,” he commanded, sending a thrill through Crowley’s every nerve and making his already half-hard cock twitch in his pants.

His cock, which was now being stroked through his boxer-briefs by _the angel Aziraphale._

“You will, of course, forgive me if I’m bollocks at this, yes?” Aziraphale asked, in the tone of one who is making pasta for the first time.

“I... I-_oh fuck!”_

Aziraphale had, in one swift but soft motion, pulled Crowley from his pants and taken just the head into his tightly pursed lips. And if Crowley hadn’t been rock hard a moment ago, he certainly was now.

His whole body jerked, and he pulled his hand from the steering wheel to bury it in plush curls...

“Ah Ah!” Aziraphale admonished, pulling off and leaving Crowley whimpering for even that minimal contact.

“What did I say about your hands?” Aziraphale scolded, one hand suddenly rolling Crowley’s bollocks in his fingers in a way that was maddeningly distracting.

“Yeah, leavin’ ‘em, sorry,” he yelped, returning his trembling right hand to the steering wheel and taking it in a white-knuckled grip.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale quipped, and Crowley barely had a whole second to contemplate ‘_good boy’_ before the angel’s sweet mouth had returned to his tip, pressing a hard kiss to it and making his hips jerk upward, shaking the car a bit.

Obviously encouraged by the reaction, Aziraphale pushed almost all the way down his length, his nose brushing the sparse, well-trimmed hair at the base. The angel gagged a bit, his throat tightening on Crowley’s cock head and making him struggle to keep from bucking into the pressure.

Luckily, Aziraphale did not balk at his own gagging, and simply pulled back languidly. He clearly didn’t know enough to keep his teeth out of the equation, as they caught on the swollen ridge of Crowley’s cock head, but the pleasure-pain of it only made him whimper wantonly.

Aziraphale hummed in approval, and the vibration traveled all the way down his length to his balls.

“_Fffffuck, angel!” _he cried out, hearing he leather groan under his tight fist on the steering wheel. He concentrated hard to ensure he wasn’t gripping the angel’s neck in a similar fashion, but only managed to shakily stroke up into the semi-sweaty hair at the nape of his neck.

The angel hummed again, beginning to torturously slowly bob his head as he gently started to suck.

“F-fuck, fuck, _fuck_,” Crowley babbled, uncertain if he’d ever been this close to coming, this quickly. The angel’s teeth gently grazed his cock head on every languid pull, and he threw his head back against the seat, hoping against hope that if he didn’t look, he might last longer.

Not looking did not help, not in the least.

It only focused his mind on the way the angel’s tongue was pressing firmly against the side of his cock on every fevered motion, the way his cheeks were pressing in and creating debilitating pressure. The way he toyed with the slit on every third pull back or so, teasing and drawing it out. The lascivious sounds of his sucking. The combined sensation of the angel’s fingers holding, _squeezing _his balls as he sped up his movements.

Crowley was powerless to stop his moans, his bowed spine, his slammed-shut eyes. The angel was somehow _fucking perfect _at this, bringing Crowley closer and closer to the edge with every slow, even pull.

What finally did him in was Aziraphale’s hummed _mmmmm_, like he was a particularly delicious snack to be savored.

Courtesy told him to hold off, but he knew he only had seconds.

“Az—_angel,_ angel! I’m coming, I’m coming!” he warned, holding back only as long as he could.

Instead of pulling back, Aziraphale doubled down, shoving Crowley all the way to the back of his throat until he gagged again.

The pressure sent him over, and Aziraphale began continuously swallowing around his tip, creating a rhythmic pressure as he spurted hard down the angel’s throat.

_“Ssssshit, shit, fuck, oh, God, Aziraphale, don’t... don’t stop, please...” _he begged, still feeling himself coming even after four or five heady spasms.

Aziraphale swallowed one more time, and Crowley jerked hard, causing the car to rock on its axels as the angel slowly pulled up and off. He left a gentle kiss on the tip, his pink tongue darting out to take the last of his come from the slit and making Crowley twitch again.

Crowley found himself weak and dizzy with pleasure, and it only intensified as the angel sat up, wiping his lips with a single finger as if it had been goddamn butter cream he’d been nibbling on. He gave Crowley a smug grin, letting out a satisfied little _mmm_ as he sat back in his seat.

“Delectable,” Aziraphale declared, and Crowley could have sworn his spent cock gave a helpless twitch in interest.

“Bloody fuckin _Hell, _angel. What... what was that for?” he gasped, whimpering as he shoved his still-aching cock back into his sweaty pants, and zipped up.

“Why-ever do I need a reason, my dear? Other than _I love you?”_

Crowley whimpered helplessly, but Aziraphale calmed him by leaning in and pressing his swollen lips to Crowley’s cheek and neck.

“Now. We ought to be getting back to the cottage. I think I’ve done enough thinking for today, and I’d very much like to begin checking off some of those _options_ I was on about. If you’re amenable, that is.”

The angel looked completely pleased with himself as he buckled back in, eyeing the open road before them.

“Come on then,” he goaded, pointing at the road as Crowley tried desperately to pull himself together with a blunt sewing needle and frayed thread. “And the speed limit, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked, buckling his belt with trembling hands, and rearranging his still-sensitive nether region as he buckled his own seatbelt. “Whatever you want, angel.”

“There’s a good lad.”

******

“Your wings seem incredibly sensitive, dear, much more than mine. Almost erogenous...” Aziraphale mused casually as he pattered about, cleaning up the morning dishes.

Crowley froze, thrown off by the rather bizarre mixture of mundane domestic setting and teasingly exciting topic.

“Er... yeah,” he said, setting down his coffee, suddenly very disinterested in it. “Always have been...”

He’d always known his wings were sensitive, had done since his very first grooming of his singed, broken feathers. He didn’t suppose any actual research had been done on celestials, but the amount of nerve endings at the base of each and every feather was likely about equal to that of nipples. And, like nipples, not every touch was exciting, if you knew how to go about it, what repetitions to avoid. And Crowley _had_ learned, over time, how to avoid becoming aroused every single time he preened them. They required a lot of upkeep to look as flawless as his did, and it would be a hell of an inconvenience if he went around getting erections every time. Or wet, depending on nether choice. But _Aziraphale_ touching them? There was pretty much no avoiding it.

“Hm,” Aziraphale replied, clearly deep in thought as he distractedly laid dishes into the sink. “It’s quite interesting. One might assume that it had something to do with your Fall, or you being a demon, but... I don’t think that’s it at all. I fought other demons over the years, and naturally I went for the wings. Some didn’t appear to feel anything in them. I think... I think perhaps it’s simply a unique part of _you.”_

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the angel, trying desperately to figure out where this line of reasoning was going. Aziraphale gave nothing up, however, as he scrubbed cheerily at the dishes and laid them out on a towel to dry.

“Why...” Crowley started to ask, but balked, as he didn’t know what he actually meant to find out. 

Aziraphale paused, turning to look Crowley in the face, his demeanor changing to one of surprise at the mild alarm that was definitely written on Crowley’s features.

“Oh! Oh, I was simply curious if I could make you finish from stimulating _only your wings._”

Crowley choked on air. The nonchalance, the hapless disregard, the upbeat simplicity with which the angel said something so downright _filthy_ was flooring. In fact, if Crowley hadn’t already been seated, he certainly would be now.

“Uhhhhhh,” he said, eloquently.

Aziraphale smiled, the smug bastard.

“I see,” Aziraphale said knowingly. He set the soapy sponge down in the sink, dried his hands leisurely on another towel, and began to slowly approach Crowley, his eyes going half-lidded and burning with sudden desire. Crowley felt himself respond viciously—his face going hot, his heart slamming in his chest, and his trousers becoming notably _less comfortable._

“Would you like me to test the theory, darling?” Aziraphale asked, stopping just in front of Crowley’s chair and raising a hand to card through Crowley’s hair. The perfect brush of fingertips and fingernails against his scalp had Crowley shuddering, a semblance of what they would be like in his feathers, his throat nearly closing up and forcing him to swallow noisily.

“I, er... w-well I can answer that question for you. You can. Make me... c-come, I mean. From just... _that_,” he said, his voice embarrassingly hollow and weak. He was having trouble resisting the urge to close his eyes and push his head into the angel’s palm.

“Oh, you’ve tried?” Aziraphale asked, punctuating the statement by curling his fingers against Crowley’s scalp and earning himself an entirely unhinged whimper.

“N-no,” Crowley replied, shifting in his chair as he found himself almost completely hard in his trousers. “But you... I know that _you can._ Angel... anything you could do just short of even _looking at me_ could have me on the brink.”

Aziraphale giggled, but it was a dark kind, the kind that held thousands of years of knowledge in it. It was an _oh-I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing_ giggle. Bastard.

“Well that must have made our encounters over the years rather difficult for you,” Aziraphale said, a hint of mischief in his voice as his fist closed to give Crowley’s hair a very light tug.

Crowley jerked, letting out another involuntary groan and finally bringing the heel of his palm to his crotch and rubbing.

“Angel, _you have no bloody idea...” _he whined, pressing harder and reveling in the spike of pleasure.

“Oh, I think I do,” Aziraphale replied matter-of-factly, and then he was swatting Crowley’s hand away from his aching erection. “None of that, love. I said _just your wings.”_

Crowley’s eyes flew open, his mouth falling open slightly in shock.

“Now?!” he asked, his heart beginning to hammer faster in anticipation. “We’re doing this _now?!”_

Aziraphale shrugged, nonchalant and self-satisfied, as if it were convenient for him either way. “Well I’d say _conditions are ripe, _wouldn’t you?” he asked, his sapphire eyes very intently and very slowly traveling down to rest on the bulge in Crowley’s trousers.

Crowley swallowed again, still trying to accept that _this could happen now, was happening. _His angel _wanted him_, desired him.

Words failing him, Crowley simply nodded as best he could, which really just came off as more of a shiver.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m going to need more than that,” Aziraphale said simply, releasing the handful of Crowley’s hair that he’d gathered and stroking through it to settle it. Crowley could feel the chill course over him; his ears going hot, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and goosebumps forming on his forearms.

Aziraphale _didn’t _actually need more than that. They knew each other so well that words were practically perfunctory. They could _feel each other_, not just physically through touch, but through their auras, their very essences, which were much more broad and expansive than any human-shaped body could hold. And they were especially tuned to one another, like specialized radio frequencies; no doubt, Aziraphale was being absolutely _berated _by the waves and waves of desire bursting from Crowley like an over-saturated sponge. Because he didn’t have to hold it back anymore. He could open those gates, let it out. After 6000 years, _he was free to let it all out,_ and he sincerely hoped that he was suffocating Aziraphale in the love he felt for him.

But Aziraphale was being a complete _bastard, _the lovely git, and he was going to make Crowley say it. Admit it. Out loud. Because he wanted to _hear it._

Well... two could dance that particular tango.

Crowley tried to keep the impish grin from his lips as he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and raised a hand to press a single finger against the dip in his own sternum. He then drew his fingers torturously slowly up his throat, hissing in a breath before closing his grip a bit.

With his eyes closed, he found that he did actually have the courage to say what he’d planned, in a breathy, lustful sigh,

“I want you to, angel. _Take me apart. Touch me until I can’t form any words but your name._ Put your signature on each and every feather. Make them yours. I want you to... _I want you to...”_

Crowley allowed his control over his eyes to slip, letting the yellow swallow up the white, before slowly cracking his lids open to see a pair of very wide and very _hungry _angel eyes staring back at him.

“Up,” Aziraphale demanded, probably not meaning to sound so gruff and commanding, but it did wonders for Crowley. If Aziraphale had asked him to put his hand on the lit stove, he’d probably have done it.

Crowley practically tripped over himself to rise to his feet, and no sooner had he done so, Aziraphale was gripping his wrist and very nearly _yanking him_ into the open space in the sitting room.

With a hasty angelic miracle, the fire was lit, the temperature in the room jumped some ten degrees or so, and all of Crowley’s clothing vanished.

“Eager, are we?” Crowley asked wittingly, watching the rather flustered angel as he wiggled out of his overcoat and flung it carelessly over the couch.

“No. Just efficient,” Aziraphale lied. “Now, tell me about safe words.”

Crowley swallowed, his cock pulsing in interest. There was so much to parse apart there—first, Aziraphale knew what a _safe word_ was, and second, he foresaw them _needing one_.

“I won’t be needing one,” Crowley said, every inch of his skin on fire with arousal. His eyes followed the movement of Aziraphale’s hands, as a predator watches prey, waiting excitedly for those perfect fingers to find their way to his skin.

They didn’t, however. They went to the angel’s shirt cuffs, maddeningly slowly unbuttoning the links, removing them, and then, in a motion far more erotic than it had any right to be, beginning to roll up the sleeves to his elbows.

“You say that now,” Aziraphale challenged calmly. “But I think you’re underestimating your threshold for pleasure and my skill in delivering it.”

Crowley’s spine felt like it was turning to pudding. How on Earth was Aziraphale so good at this?

“So tell me; how does one go about choosing a word?” the angel asked as he finished rolling up his sleeves.

“Er, it’s...” Crowley began, but had to pause to get his physiology under control. Aziraphale was a _vision_, there in front of the glow of the fire, sleeves rolled up in anticipation of delivering ecstasy. “It’s... it’s supposed to be absurd enough to break the mood, but not so absurd as to _kill it_, just in case you want to, er... _continue_ after it’s been said. Something you would never say, erm... _in the throes, _as it were. Can be personal, or... just... any random word. _And I swear to Someone, if you say ineffable, I’m miracling away this boner and leaving.”_

Aziraphale laughed heartily, and it had quite the opposite effect of _leaving_ on Crowley’s erection.

“Oh no, my dear, _definitely _not that. Hm,” a flash of delightfully mischievous recognition flashed over the angel’s face, and he looked Crowley in the eyes. “How about... Eden?”

Crowley couldn’t have cared less about the word. Aziraphale could have suggested cumquat, and Crowley would have vehemently agreed. All he cared about was how stunningly beautiful his angel was just now, standing there calmly, still fully dressed (if a little casually), and discussing how to bring Crowley to rapture under his hands.

“Soundsgoodangel,” Crowley slurred, resisting the urge to reach down and give himself a few relieving strokes.

Aziraphale smiled, warm and genuine, and then beckoned Crowley forward with a single finger.

“Come here, love.”

Crowley scrambled to obey him, rocketing forward and calling his wings out as he did. In his excitement, his primary feathers brushed books from the coffee table and knocked over the small lamp on the side table next to Aziraphale’s recliner.

Aziraphale gave him a look that was _beyond _smug as he waved a hand and put everything to rights.

“Eager, are we?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the echo of his own words, but anything he would have said in his own defense would have been A.) a lie, as he was in fact painfully eager, and B.) might have slowed their momentum, and... well, he was willing to bite the bullet on this one to keep said momentum plummeting forward.

Aziraphale closed the gap between them, taking a moment to simply exist in Crowley’s space, his forehead resting against Crowley’s. It was achingly intimate, and Crowley sighed in comfort, relishing the angel’s closeness even as his body begged to be given relief.

“Love you, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed, punctuating it by placing a tiny, simple kiss on Crowley’s lips, like a period to mark the statement undebatable. Crowley smiled happily against his lips.

“I l—” Crowley’s answering words came like the striking of a snake, but Aziraphale raised a hand and placed a single finger to Crowley’s lips to silence them.

“Those words hurt you, Crowley. I do so love to hear them, but… it pains me to know that they pain you. I know, my dear. I know that you love me. I can feel it even now, like a lovely warm blanket, a cup of cocoa with little marshmallows.”

Crowley giggled at the comparison, but allowed his angel to continue.

“So, if you would do me this favor; limit your use of them to only rare occasions? Please?”

Crowley smiled wider, then pressed a simple kiss to the soft pad of Aziraphale’s pointer finger, which was still resting against his lips.

“F’course, angel,” he muttered, excitement flaring down his spine to pool in his gut as Aziraphale backed away and circled around him like a stalking predator, keeping a hand held out to trace a path on Crowley’s skin and keep them connected as he disappeared from view.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said in observation. “The grey feathers are gone... from where I... erm...”

“Passion-smited me?” Crowley supplied, and Aziraphale laughed again.

“Hardly a smiting, dear, a _benediction_, at worst,” the angel corrected, now fully out of Crowley’s sight. “Perhaps it’s like capillaries, in the skin…”

Crowley could do nothing but grin like a sap at Aziraphale, turning a sexual encounter into an anatomy lesson.

“Would you lock your hands behind your back, dear?” Aziraphale asked, apparently moving on from the subject in the hottest possible way, his voice low and sultry. “I want to make sure you don’t touch.”

Crowley’s hips jerked at the very idea of touching himself, but he immediately placed his hands behind his back, locking them together.

Suddenly Aziraphale’s chin was on Crowley’s shoulder, his whole body pressing against the hyper-sensitive feathers, and his lips were brushing the shell of Crowley’s ear.

“Promise me you’ll use the word, if you need it?”

Aziraphale’s words pulsed over Crowley’s neck and ear, a light puff of warm air that made him shudder and groan.

“I won’t need it,” Crowley contested, his voice sounding wrecked. “But yes, if I’m wrong on that point, I promise.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, his smile apparent as he pressed yet another kiss to the heated flesh of Crowley’s neck, just below his ear.

Without much more fanfare, Aziraphale had begun. He started slow and soft, his hands gently tracing the lines of muscle that lined the bone. It wasn’t enough to get Crowley really going, but it was certainly enough to keep him interested—his cock so hard now that it was almost painful.

Aziraphale pointedly avoided that magical spot on the underside of Crowley’s wings, and Crowley knew why. That was the finale, the knock out, the hole in one. That was going to be used, once he was close, to tip him over that cliff.

Just the thought of it made him groan.

Aziraphale let out a pleased breath from his nostrils.

“I do so enjoy the sounds you make, dear,” he said, walking his fingers up to the pinnacle of each wing and forming a curl-and-release motion that worked his fingertips below the feathers to contact the thin, sensitive skin beneath.

Bolts of pleasure fired through the nerve endings near the joint, and Crowley’s entire body began to tremble, causing his feathers to flutter quietly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with delight, the way he did when he spotted a rare first edition at an antique sale. “You liked that.”

Crowley refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting. The bastard _knew _he liked it. So he simply adjusted his wings, pushing them back against Aziraphale’s fingertips.

Aziraphale hummed at the wordless confirmation, dragging his hands with the grain of the fathers, following their natural pathways downward. Little spikes of pleasure shot through Crowley’s wings, and it did, in fact, translate to sexual pleasure.

He was helpless to fight off the rocking of his hips as the angel stroked his wings repetitively, top to bottom, his mind running wild with the movement; much the same as the movement of a hand on his hard prick.

The angel’s caresses gradually sped up, just like hips making love, and they moved inward to the muscle-dense joints near Crowley’s back. Near-constant groans and twitches accompanied the ministrations, and Crowley was practically mindless with pleasure when, quite suddenly, Aziraphale stopped.

Crowley whimpered pathetically, his hips jerking violently twice, a few beads of precum appearing and dribbling down his length.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” Aziraphale asked, collected and calm.

Crowley was in no state to attempt to salvage his pride. He was so close, he felt like he’d had a warm, tight mouth on his prick for the last half hour.

“_Yes! Yes, angel,” _he begged. He was typically above begging, but right now, he was above nothing. “P-please, angel, keep going, please, _fuck_.”

Another bead of precum appeared at just the thought of Aziraphale’s hands starting up again.

“Oh, wonderful to hear,” Aziraphale said, his touch still agonizingly absent. The pleasure began to dim just slightly, but leaving Crowley almost desperate for it.

Without warning, Aziraphale’s hands were on Crowley’s favorite spot, pressing in and stroking.

Crowley wailed, the pleasure ratcheting back up to 10 as his knees buckled and his hands unclasped. He had every intention of touching himself, but the priority was ensuring he didn’t plummet to the floor, so he focused on stabilizing his balance and staying upright first.

Aziraphale appeared in front of him, grasping his wrists to keep his hands from his furiously red cock.

“Well that won’t do,” Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley’s hands to his chest, to the lapel of his waistcoat. “Hold onto me, love.”

Crowley obeyed, taking the lapels into fists that shook with exertion. Somewhere in the back of his desire-soaked brain, a voice was screaming _don’t wrinkle his favorite waistcoat, _but, farther forward, a much more desperate voice was chanting _hang on for dear life._

The sizzle of a miracle crackled in the air, and, slightly delirious from the pleasure, Crowley found himself being guided onto his knees on a decorative pillow, Aziraphale doing the same. He kept relatively far back from Crowley, almost a full arm’s length, likely to keep Crowley from rutting against him. Which was wise, as Crowley probably would have tackled the angel to the floor at the first brush of tweed against the sensitive underside of his cock.

“Alright, love?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley was coming unraveled. His wings were spasming with the ghost of little tingling points of pleasure, his skin burning and alight with want. His cock felt like it’d been put through a thorough and tight fucking, and was a single caress from bursting.

“_Yes, angel, just... just put your fucking hands on me, please!” _he pleaded, gripping the angel by the lapels and attempting to yank him forward.

Like a stone behemoth, the angel didn’t budge, but he grinned, raising his hands to place them on Crowley’s chest, where they caressed over his hot skin, practically petting.

“No need for profanity, dear,” Aziraphale cooed, dragging his hands down Crowley’s chest slowly, and over his ribs.

Crowley twitched with sensitivity, the word _Eden_ suddenly dancing in the periphery of his thoughts.

“Angel, you’re torturing me,” Crowley tried, not ready to grind things to a halt yet, but considering it.

“Am I?” Aziraphale asked knowingly, migrating back up to pass his thumbs over Crowley’s nipples.

The spark of tingling sensitivity went straight to his cock, and caused Crowley to let out a frankly obscene moan, his hips jerking again in search of friction, of relief. He bit his lip to keep that word inside, begging with his corporation to hang on, just a little longer. He had faith in his angel—he wouldn’t torture him for long, didn’t have the heart. But it was going to be delicious agony until he broke.

_“Pleasssse, angel,” _Crowley hissed, his tongue splitting and lengthening as he spoke.

It must have been enough, because Aziraphale finally, _finally _took pity on him, tracing a path back over Crowley’s ribs and, incredibly gently, into the feathers at Crowley’s favorite spot.

Another spasm went through him, and his wings were twitching almost violently. Aziraphale’s pity apparently didn’t extend far, because he started slow and smooth, as if he were starting all over again.

_“More, angel, pleassse, I’m so...” _he had to pause to release a warbling breath, “I’m so close, pleasssse...”

“It would seem my suspicions were well-founded,” Aziraphale said, still smug, the bastard.

“I bloody told you, now would you jussst...” Crowley growled, leaning forward slightly to force the angel’s fingers harder against his wings, but Aziraphale quickly caught on, pulling back to keep the pressure excruciatingly light.

“Just making sure I don’t hurt you, my dearest,” Aziraphale replied, barely speeding up his strokes.

“You won’t fucking hurt me, Aziraphale, you could never, now would you _please let me come?!” _Crowley practically howled, feeling himself approaching that plateau of bliss that threatened to make him mindless.

“As you wish, my darling,” Aziraphale said, and before Crowley could brace himself, the angel’s hands were stroking through his feathers, raking across that magical spot and making him want to scream.

Crowley was trapped, suspended in unbearable euphoria for what felt like hours. It was _almost enough,_ but it wasn’t taking him there. He whined on every downstroke, his breaths punctuated by tiny little whimpers of _“Aziraphale, angel, angel!”_

Suddenly Aziraphale’s perfectly soft, supple lips were on his, and starbursts erupted behind his eyelids as everything released.

He groaned into the kiss, feeling his wings and hips pumping as he came explosively, the angel’s hands continuing their rhythmic, resplendent strokes. It lasted longer than Crowley was even aware an orgasm _could _last, his body twitching and spiking with wave after wave of ecstasy. And when it finally did begin to wane, he found himself collapsing, boneless and exhausted against Aziraphale, arms draped over his shoulders and hips weakly rocking against him.

The angel shifted a thigh forward, giving Crowley something to press against.

“Hardly counts,” he whispered, his hands retreating from Crowley’s feathers and stroking up and down his back, soothing and calm. “You did so well for me, darling,” he continued, turning his head in to press a kiss into Crowley’s hair above his temple.

Crowley tried to respond with something vaguely appreciative, but all that came out was a groan. He allowed himself to be held for a moment longer before realizing that he’d likely come all over Aziraphale’s clothes.

He pushed back, his thighs shaky and weak as he held the angel at arm’s length, and looked down to see his spend smeared on Aziraphale’s trousers.

“S-sorry, angel,” he said, his voice rocky and broken.

“Oh, I’m not,” Aziraphale replied with a happy little wiggle. He snapped, and the evidence vanished. “There, see? Never happened.”

Crowley frowned, allowing his wings to droop a little behind him. “But... you’ll... always know it was there. Underneath?” he asked, feeling a little guilty. Aziraphale loved his clothing, took near-reverent care of it.

Aziraphale gave him the wickedest grin he thought he’d ever seen, and wrapped a hand around Crowley’s waist to yank them back together. Aziraphale slotted his lips against Crowley’s ear, whispering gruffly,

“I sincerely hope I do. When I’m making tea. When I’m doing the taxes. _When I have customers_. I hope I look down and blush, and remember your cries, your hands on me, your love painted across my trousers.”

Crowley shivered at the words, wrapping his arms tentatively back around his angel and holding on tight. His traitorous cock was already becoming interested again.

Rocking his hips back and forth experimentally against Aziraphale, he found the evidence of the angel’s own arousal.

“Want me to...” he asked, insinuating a thigh forward to make his point.

Aziraphale grunted with appreciation, but pulled back. “I’ve a better idea,” he said, pushing to his feet, his tented trousers now at mouth-height, and Crowley had to stop himself from leaping forward to rip through the clothing and take him all the way to his throat.

“Come with me,” Aziraphale said, holding a hand out.

“With pleasure, angel,” Crowley said, hiding his wings away and allowing himself to be led back to the bedroom.

*******

Crowley’s throat was sore from the gasping. And the moaning. And the whining. And the repetition of Aziraphale’s name like a hymn.

His entire body felt like a tightly-strung bowstring—every muscle clenched and tensed to such an extent. His spine bowed upward off the bed, head thrown back into the downy pillows.

His hands were fisted into the now slightly sweat-damp sheets—it wasn’t the first time they’d been there today, and it wouldn’t be the last.

It had never been like this. He’d been with so many humans, of every possible shape, size, and genital configuration, he might even hazard to call himself a slut. A high class slut. A slut with standards. But never, not a single time in 6000 years of dalliances, had he ever felt so completely wrecked.

He’d already come twice, not including the wing-grooming induced orgasm earlier, and he was already on the edge again, demonic refractory periods being what they were. Either that, or Aziraphale was _just that good._ Probably a combination—Aziraphale was that good _to Crowley._

His spend was still moist on his own stomach, what little that hadn’t dripped down his sides, anyway. His abdominal muscles had ceased spasming and now maintained a constant shiver that was definitely doing to leave him feeling like a trampled frog later.

The angel’s lovely, well-manicured pointer and middle fingers were deep inside him, slowly forming a come-hither motion against his prostate. Any human would be sore by now, unable to even achieve another orgasm this way. But Crowley longed for the pain, ached for it in a carnal, probably slightly demented way. _Wring me out, exhaust me, drip me dry._

It was lucky he didn’t typically beg, because he was beyond words anyway. He’d been reduced to a pitching, writhing, whimpering beast, quaking beneath the attentive hands of his angel.

He attempted a _please, _possibly _mercy,_ but all that came out was a guttural sob, the angel’s hand curling against his prostate once more, again torturously slowly.

And every time Crowley showed any signs of being close, the angel stopped, stilled. Crowley didn’t even know Aziraphale knew what edging was, maybe he still didn’t. Perhaps he just understood that the plateau before orgasm was deliriously enjoyable, and he wanted to keep Crowley there as long as possible.

Whatever the reason, Crowley was in both ecstasy and agony. He wanted the release, he really did, but... the torture was delicious. And if it was going to last forever... he’d gladly accept his fate.

Aziraphale curled his fingers again, cooed something Crowley didn’t quite catch, and Crowley’s legs jerked where they rested on the angel’s shoulders. His flesh was on fire with pleasure, his veins throbbing with desire. He could feel his untouched cock twitch viciously twice, more warm precum hitting his navel.

“Did you hear me, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, his voice far more sultry than Crowley could handle at the moment. It went in the demon’s ear canal, rocketed down his spine, momentarily caressing past sensitive wing joints, and into his overused sex.

He groaned, abandoning the thought of trying to answer, and shook his head weakly. The muscles in his neck protested even that minimal movement.

“Do you want my mouth on you this time? Or my hand? Or would you prefer untouched again?”

Choices. Crowley didn’t like them, currently. Choices required thought, something he was entirely incapable of, at present.

An adorable giggle filled the air, and the sound followed the same path down Crowley’s nerve endings to his cock, which pulsed again.

“Nod at the option you want—mouth?”

Crowley of course wouldn’t say _no _to that, but... the angel’s _hands..._Crowley had always had a thing for them. Been obsessed with them, would be more accurate. Their softness, like crushed velvet, their strength, like steel. The gentle way they stroked down the spine of books, cradled tea cups. Held flaming swords. Or rather, _didn’t._

“Hands?”

Crowley’s body reacted before he could nod—a shiver passing from his curling toes to his clenched-tight fingertips. His cock twitched again, his balls drawing up tight for a moment before releasing yet another pulse of precum.

How much did he even have? Could he run out? He was convinced he would run out any second now.

“Hand it is then.”

Crowley thought he howled as the angel’s perfect grip closed around his sensitive head, but he might have just considered howling, and never followed through. His senses were rather tied up at the moment, being bombarded with pleasure.

Or so he’d thought. He had no idea it could get so, _so much better._

By some minor miracle, there were suddenly hands all over him. Or the sensation of hands—he couldn’t convince his eyes open to look, squeezed tight as they were with the onslaught.

The hands, far more than any human-shaped creature ought to have, went searching, splaying, _petting _over Crowley’s fiery skin—over jutting hip bones, the valley of his stomach, twitching abs, peaked nipples, shaking thighs. They even shoved beneath him, grasped his taught buttocks, soothed up his angled spine, and finally pressed just below the scapula, at the juncture of human shoulder and ethereal wing.

Crowley wailed. It was just _so much._ It was _everywhere._ It was even reaching inside, not inside his corporeal body, although that was indeed also happening, but inside his demonic essence, caressing against the mass of it with gentle but subtly dangerous divinity. But Crowley wasn’t afraid, not in the slightest. He _wanted_ to be vulnerable, _wanted _to offer himself up on a platter to the light. He watched the bared blade of pure angelic energy as it painlessly dragged over his form, and he shivered with delight.

_You could hurt me_, he found himself thinking, obscurely. _But you won’t._

The hand on his cock began stroking, torturously slowly, the pad of a thumb pausing on every languid pull to play over the incredibly sensitive frenulum. The fingers inside him curled once more against his prostate, and the hands all over him both massaged and restrained.

He was able to formulate a single word as his flesh became alight with unbearable pleasure.

_“Fuckfuckfuck...”_

“Not yet, darling,” Aziraphale’s maddeningly calm voice commanded, and every hand on him, in him stilled. “Not quite yet.”

The hands on his back _pressed in_, a knuckle or some other point of pressure, right into the wing joints, and a bolt of sensation flared down Crowley’s spine and into his painfully hard cock. He jerked, a leg kicking out spasmodically.

“F-fuck, _please, please, angel, please...” _he begged, hands fisting harder into the sheets, twisting them as his entire body began to quake, hips desperately trying to rock against the angel’s fingers, into his fist, but unable to budge from beneath the miracled barrage of hands.

Crowley felt like he was going to burst. His balls had been drawn in tight for several sustained minutes now, and his cock was simply leaking nonstop. The bolts of pleasure were unbearable, were _everywhere._ He arched off the bed with a final plea.

_“Please!”_

The angel didn’t answer with words. Instead, everything started up again at once—the fingers inside him stroked his prostate, the fist around his cock pumped rhythmically, the hands at his chest toyed with his nipples, the hands at his back caressed through his corporeal form to his actual wings, where they were hidden away.

Pleasure exploded through him. He cried out and seized up, the only movement his cock as it twitched in Aziraphale’s slowly-pumping fist. Cum hit Crowley’s stomach, chest, even his neck, he was coming so hard, and he just kept coming.

The orgasm lasted almost a whole thirty seconds, Crowley’s body still responding to Aziraphale’s touches every time he moved. It went on so long, in fact, that Crowley had begun to wonder if demons could get stuck in orgasm. His muscles continued twitching and jerking, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over and through him, Aziraphale’s hand still _slowly_ stroking his cock, caressing the head, the slit.

Until finally, mercifully, it crested—with a shout, Crowley collapsed, hips relaxing back into the mattress, hands releasing their grip on the sheets. He simply lay panting for a moment, eyes closed as he noted the retreat of all but just two hands—one slowly pulling out of his fluttering hole, the other _still_ stroking him through a set of intense aftershocks.

Too blissed out to even note the passage of time, he was vaguely aware that his legs were being handled—supported as they were removed from the angel’s shoulders and laid to rest on the bed. Something warm and wet was being dragged over his stomach, up his abs, which gave another helpless twitch at the contact, over his chest, and up his neck. Then a hand, which he noted was trembling, was looping under his head, angling him to lean up.

“Water, dear,” came Aziraphale’s lovely bell-song voice, and Crowley pursed his lips to accept.

It was a biting relief against his overused and desert-dry throat, but Crowley accepted with a cough and a groan. Then soft, supple lips were being pressed to Crowley’s cheek and temple, and he finally felt rejuvenated enough to open his eyes, even his eyelids feeling tired and slow.

Aziraphale was radiant next to him—a gently triumphant grin on his face as he pecked quick kisses all over Crowley.

Crowley had to test out his tongue before trying to use it, work his throat. _“Bloody Heaven, angel. Where on Earth did you learn to do that?!” _he asked weakly.

Aziraphale grinned wider, mischief threading into the already smug tapestry on his face. He reached down to take Crowley’s hand from the sheets, interlacing his fingers and bringing their joined hands up between them. Absently, Crowley noticed his own were tipped with jet black claws.

“You’d be surprised what you can learn by reading, dear,” Aziraphale mused, studying their hands, both trembling a bit.

Crowley scoffed, trying to focus on making the claws go away but failing.

“There’s a book on the growth of extra hands to make demons have explosive orgasms? Angel, you’ve been hiding inventory....” he said with a sappy grin.

Aziraphale giggled, and damn Crowley’s over-interested sex drive, it was fucking sexy.

“No, my dear. But I might write one...” he paused to smile down at Crowley. “No, it’s called overstimulation, and you’ve always been so receptive. That’s why I inquired about your wings this morning. I wanted to make sure you could handle it. I didn’t quite predict the two orgasms beforehand, but what can I say? I’m apparently just that good.”

If he’d had the strength, Crowley would have summoned up a trophy to present the angel.

“Yes, you are,” he said, leaning in for a quick but sure kiss on the lips. “But to be honest, that might have been due, partially, to over-eagerness on my part.”

Aziraphale smiled, dopy and adorable. “Well you have been waiting 6000 years. I can see how that might make one rather excitable.”

The angel’s free hand had slipped beneath Crowley’s neck, and started massaging. The sensation felt slightly different than usual, more dull, and Crowley belatedly realized his scales had broken out.

“These are usually a bad sign,” Aziraphale tutted worriedly, fingers caressing down the curve of his neck.

Crowley shook his head languidly, feeling the protest in his muscles as he did.

“Nah, just a sign that I’m overwhelmed. Never been overwhelmed by anything other than fear and pain before, so I could see how you’d think that. Never... never been overwhelmed by pleasure before. ‘S... _nice.”_

Aziraphale shined with pride and happiness, leaning in for one more kiss.

“Good. Now that I have you relaxed, I’d like to discuss something with you,” Aziraphale said after leaning to recline on his elbow, one hand still massaging Crowley’s neck, the other tangled, feather-light, in Crowley’s hand.

Crowley noted the hint of manipulation, both in the angel’s tone and his deliberately tranquil movements—it was something he’d done for millennia. He’d butter Crowley up with a concession in an argument, or give him _that look_, and it almost always got him what he wanted.

“Ohhhhh, I see how it is now!” Crowley replied, faux-shock in his voice. “It used to just be butterfly lashes and _the pout_, now you’re using orgasms?! Low, angel, very low.”

Aziraphale blushed and grinned, caught.

“Well... I can’t help it if you’re completely gone on my charms. I’ve just gained a tactic for my arsenal, is all,” Aziraphale retorted, fingers flexing in Crowley’s.

Crowley settled, perfectly fine being manipulated this way.

He looked down at their joined hands, his breath still catching at the sight. He tried once more to banish the claws, and to his relief, they slowly vanished, leaving perfectly normal, human-shaped fingernails.

“Not that I’m complaining... _at all_... but angel...” he shifted slightly onto a shoulder so he could face Aziraphale head-on. The angel’s eyes were open and entreating, and for a moment Crowley got lost in them. “You can just ask. My denials and tentativeness were all just part of my act—to appear more demonic, less receptive. I never really meant most of it. I was just doing the bare minimum for plausible deniability.”

Aziraphale’s smile morphed to one of pity for a split second, before warming to a much more content one.

“Well... in that case, the reason I felt I needed to exhaust you... I... my dear, I... well I was, sort of, hoping that... you might...” Aziraphale was pausing, stumbling over whatever it was he was trying to say, and Crowley headed off the doubt by bringing Aziraphale’s hand up and lightly kissing his knuckles.

It clearly worked, because Aziraphale relaxed, eyes shining down at their joined hands.

“Right. Well... I was hoping we could reverse things. Er, how did the books put it... if you would, erm... top.”

Dread flooded through Crowley, not because he didn’t want to or hadn’t, he’d done the deed six ways to Sunday, and while he had preferences, sex was sex, and he’d take what he could get, when in the mood... or give, rather.

No, his trepidation was over hurting Aziraphale. The first time had been enjoyable, sure, but there was that element of pain involved. No matter how prepared, there would always be pain, the first time.

Aziraphale clearly saw his reaction plain on his face, because he hurried to continue.

“Now, I know what you’re going to say, that you don’t want to hurt me, that you worry you’ll be too rough, or too forward with me, but I don’t believe that in the slightest. You’re incredibly gentle with me Crowley, incredibly patient. I know you’ll take good care of me, go as slow as I need, no matter how torturous it is for you. And I know that for two reasons, one; you enjoy the torture—“

Crowley spluttered, but Aziraphale was faster.

“You do, don’t deny it. And two, and most important; you love me. And you’ll ensure my utmost comfort.”

_Well... fuck_. Crowley couldn’t deny the logic, for all of it was true. He sighed, taking a moment to look back down at their joined hands as he considered. He’d known they’d come to this juncture eventually, but he didn’t think it would be this soon.

“Don’t suppose I could get you to miracle away your pain receptors?” he mumbled, caressing over the back of the angel’s hand with his thumb.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I want it to be as authentic as possible. I want all of it, with you. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I want it, I do. And if I change my mind, I’ll use our word, I promise love. So?”

Crowley looked up at the angel’s pleading, begging face, and was lost. He’d pretty much known the answer as soon as the question was posed; _whatever you ask, angel. Yes._

With a faked put-upon sigh and a grin, Crowley groaned, “yes, fine, alright.”

Ecstatic, Aziraphale bounced on the bed. “Oh, really?! That’s wonderful. Do you need some... er... orange juice or something?”

Crowley actually guffawed. “That’s humans, angel. I don’t need anything to become aroused again but you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darkened—going from pleased delight to raunchy suggestion in a flash.

“Mm, is that so?” he asked, untangling their hands and leaning in for a much deeper, more sensual kiss. His tongue quested forward for Crowley’s, but it was more of an invitation, as it immediately retreated, beckoning Crowley to follow. He did, noting that the angel’s now-free hand had migrated to Crowley’s angular hip, and begun caressing—down across the bone, tantalizingly close to where he wanted it, then back up.

Crowley’s body reacted as it always did to Aziraphale’s touch—goosebumps flared up his arms, and his cock immediately started to refill.

He couldn’t help the nerves that followed the arousal as he gently insinuated himself forward, pushing Aziraphale to lie back and crawling on top of him, between his legs. His cursed body began to tremble with anxiety, his hands most obvious as he propped himself up to hover over the angel.

Ever vigilant, Aziraphale, of course, noticed.

He reached up to cage Crowley’s face in his hands, holding him steady and locking him in a painfully understanding gaze.

“My darling, you can say no, too... if you’re too scared to do this now, you can tell me no, I won’t be upset, and we’ll try again some other time. Besides... I’m sure there’s _plenty _of other things we can do to pass the time,” Aziraphale said, and suddenly his flat palm was pressing up lightly, just a tease, on Crowley’s cock.

He twitched with the sensation, but held his resolve.

He considered a bashful grumble of “I’m not _scared_,” but that was what the old him would have said, to maintain his mask of cool, collected demon. In truth, he was scared; scared of hurting Aziraphale, scared of his own enthusiasm, scared of what he could become when put in the position of domination. There was some part of him, some whipped and beaten part, that hungered for it viciously. And it was going to rear its ugly head eventually, and he’d prefer that it wasn’t in bed, with Aziraphale.

“But... but there’s no reason for me t— that is, I mean... safe words are for feeling _unsafe,_ and fretting really doesn’t count—” he tried, unable to meet the angel’s eyes and electing instead to fiddle with the sheets just to the right of his head.

_“Of course it counts, Crowley. _We get to choose how it gets used, and if you don’t want to do something, _for any reason whatsoever,_ I want you to feel comfortable using it. Don’t worry about not looking like a big tough demon, I already knew you weren’t a long time ago...”

“Oi!” Crowley scolded playfully, slapping Aziraphale’s shoulder weakly but actually appreciating the levity.

He softened, considering—that really would have been the only reason he didn’t use it—to maintain his facade of collectedness, and it was pretty clear now that he was incapable of keeping collected when in bed with Aziraphale.

“Alright, angel. I’m convinced. I will use it if I need to. But be prepared for me to spend a very...” he paused, leaning down like a prowling predator, staring into Aziraphale’s sapphire eyes as he did, and pressing a lascivious kiss to his chest,

“Very...” he prowled downwards, placing another, wetter kiss to his stomach, just above the completely arbitrary navel,

_“Very...”_

He finally broke the eye contact to lean in and place a tongue-laden kiss to the base of the angel’s half-hard and gorgeous cock.

“...long time getting you ready.”

Aziraphale whimpered, a trembling hand diving into the depths of Crowley’s hair.

“Which way do you want it?” Crowley asked, low and sultry as he allowed his tongue to lose its more human qualities and lick a simple stripe up the underside of Aziraphale’s cock. His skin tasted clean, like mountain stream water.

“All-fours might be easier on you,” he continued, letting his now incredibly long and forked tongue loop all the way around the head and squeeze once.

Aziraphale had attempted to answer, but the words melded into a yelp at the sensation.

_“Oh! Oh, Crowley..._ n-no, I... I want to see you, want to...” his hand was suddenly on Crowley’s cheek, beckoning him up for eye contact.

“I want to see these _beautiful eyes_ as you make love to me. You can do that for me?”

Crowley was torn between an entirely innocent desire to acquiesce to anything the angel desired, and a completely filthy desire to take the angel’s heavy cock into his mouth and press the head against his own cheek, so Aziraphale could feel his own length through it. He opted for the more innocent, of course, keeping the other caged, perhaps for later.

“F’course angel, anything you want,” he whispered, turning to press a kiss to the angel’s warm, slightly sweaty palm. He let his tongue dart out to follow the crease lining the mound of his palm, and Aziraphale let out a tiny, muted groan.

“Now you’re going to find out, angel, just _what this serpent’s tongue is capable of...”_

He dipped low again, guiding the angel’s hand to return to his ginger locks as he allowed his tongue to grow, almost the entire length of Aziraphale’s cock, and press up against the underside. With a little snakelike flair, he wiggled the forked tip against the angel’s pert, round bollocks, then pulled the entire thing back in, licking up the underside as he did, and topping it off with a puckered kiss to the tip.

Aziraphale yelped again, his thighs shivering.

“Hand me a pillow, would you?” Crowley asked, holding out a hand.

It took Aziraphale a moment to process the request, his brain likely as frazzled as Crowley’s had been only minutes ago. Soon, though, he was scrambling for one of their cream-colored throw pillows and practically throwing it into Crowley’s waiting fingers.

Not wasting any time, Crowley helped Aziraphale to raise his hips and placed the pillow underneath, creating the perfect angle for what Crowley had planned.

He situated himself comfortably between the angel’s legs—lying on his stomach, face an obscenely small distance from his cock and balls.

He took a moment to pause however, speaking against Aziraphale’s arousal and making him twitch.

“This can be a bit intense, so if there’s anything you don’t like, or you want to stop, just tell me, alright angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but he could tell by the brush of sheets and the slight bounce of the mattress that he had nodded.

“C-can I have your hand, p-please?” Aziraphale asked, his voice sounding small and afraid as his hand slid from Crowley’s hair and looped beneath his own thigh to where it would be easiest for Crowley to hold.

“F’course,” Crowley said, rearranging to prop himself on a single elbow as he reached up and interlocked their fingers. Aziraphale’s were trembling again, but Crowley trusted him to speak up about dislikes.

“Now... _relax,”_ he commanded of the angel, and began.

He started by pressing kisses to the angel’s bollocks, one by one, then followed it with spit-laden licks that started meandering down toward his hole.

It fluttered with surprise as Crowley’s lips pressed to the rim and stayed there, allowing him to acclimate to the sensation.

As soon as Aziraphale stilled, Crowley snaked his long tongue forward, first to trace the entire circumference, then to gently push inside.

“Oh!” Aziraphale moaned, his hand twitching in Crowley’s. There was only a little resistance before Crowley’s tongue popped past the rim, suddenly encased in incredible heat and pressure. The very thought of what that heat would be like swallowing his cock had him rocking against the mattress, his own cock already completely hard again.

He went agonizingly slow, working his tongue in little circular motions against the angel’s inner walls, his rim becoming soaked with spit. And just when the angel was beginning to pant and rock on him, clearly enjoying the movements, Crowley slowly pulled back and removed his tongue.

Aziraphale whined, looking down at him, imploring.

“Think you’re ready for a little bit more, angel,” he said, pushing up to kneel between the angel’s legs. They had to rearrange their hands above Aziraphale’s hip, and Crowley used the opportunity to reach for the bottle of lube, which was still on the bedspread from earlier.

“Oh, yes, darling,” Aziraphale groaned, reaching suddenly for Crowley’s cock and giving him a tug. Pleasure rocketed up Crowley’s spine, so intense after so much neglect that he doubled over a bit.

“Mmm, not that, not yet, my angel. I told you..._ I’m going to take my time on you.._.”

Not to put too fine a point on it, he held the angel’s gaze as he poured a generous amount of lube onto his pointer and middle fingers, and tossed the bottle away. Aziraphale’s hips jumped in reaction, and Crowley grinned with pride.

With his unlubed hand, he leaned over to prop himself to the left of Aziraphale’s shoulder, and trailed his lubed one down to tease at the angel’s rim. It was the perfect position for Crowley to diligently watch the angel’s every minor change in expression, watch for any cringe or twist of pain.

He kissed him firmly before just barely pushing the tip of his pointer finger inside. It was transcendent, watching that little ‘o’ of shock and pleasure cross the angel’s face. Crowley carefully began pulsating his finger in and out, working a bit farther in on each thrust, and when he’d reached the second knuckle, the angel twitched and tightened on him.

“Careful, angel,” he whispered, kissing and nipping at Aziraphale’s ear, neck, and jaw. “Try not to tense too much, it can cause more pain.”

Aziraphale nodded somewhat frantically, expression appearing a little nervous as he worked to relax.

Crowley started again, working all the way to the final knuckle before curling his finger upward, using only the tiniest of miracles to ensure he found his mark on the first try.

“Oh, God!” Aziraphale wailed, hips bucking and thighs well and truly quivering now where they lay spread open on either side of Crowley.

“Mmmm, not that I don’t appreciate the praise, but I don’t want Her _anywhere near _our boudoir,” Crowley said in a singsong, curling his finger against the angel’s prostate again.

Aziraphale slammed his eyes shut and threw his head back, and Crowley felt himself twitch at the gorgeous sight, a few beads of precum rolling down his length to drip onto Aziraphale.

_“Oh Crowley!” _The angel moaned in the same tone he’d used to cry out to his creator, and Crowley thought he might come on the spot. _“More, please, more!”_

“Alright, insatiable angel, no need to beg. You’ll get what you need in due time,” he cooed, drawing his finger almost all the way out and adding his middle finger as he pressed back in.

Aziraphale went still, opening his eyes to search out Crowley’s, which the demon immediately provided.

“Alright, angel?” he breathed, his own hand beginning to tremble as he pushed his two fingers very slowly inside.

Aziraphale nodded frantically again. “Oh, yes, Crowley,” he said, voice unsteady. “Very alright... is... is it like this for you?”

Crowley smiled, working his fingers against the angel’s prostate constantly now.

“More or less. I’m used to it, so perhaps it’s a little more intense for you, right now. Still no pain?”

“No-_oh!_\- definitely no pain, m-more, Crowley, _oh! Uhn!”_

“No, angel, not yet. You’re not ready. Just a little more of this...”

He stopped stimulating the angel’s prostate to begin scissoring his fingers, and Aziraphale pulled a face that might have been pain.

“Strange,” Aziraphale said flatly, rearranging a bit. “But not a bad strange.”

Leaning in to begin kissing and tonguing at the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, Crowley spread his fingers even more.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed, joining his fingers together again, pulling almost all the way out, and adding a third.

He bit down a little on the angel’s neck to distract him as he pushed his three fingers back inside, and Aziraphale _moaned._

“Oh, I... I like it when you use your teeth on me, love,” Aziraphale groaned, and Crowley was absently aware that the angel’s free hand had come forward to begin tugging at his own cock.

“Do you?” Crowley asked against heated skin, intentionally coy, as he began pumping his fingers slightly faster. He followed it with another quick nip of the flesh under his lips.

The angel’s hand on his cock sped up exponentially, and his heavy pants could be heard clearly.

“Not too much of that, my angel,” Crowley cautioned, migrating more toward the angel’s shoulder and nipping again, which earned him a shudder. “I want you on my cock when you come.”

Aziraphale whimpered, still stroking himself quickly. _Greedy, hedonist angel. Can never deny himself things. Has to have them taken away._

Very, very slowly, Crowley extricated his fingers from the angel, and reached up to grasp Aziraphale’s wrist, stilling him and earning himself a wanton little groan.

“Not too much, now. I told you... this could take a while, and you’ll want to last,” he said, watching the angel’s hand twitch toward his needy, purpling cock.

“You got to come three times,” Aziraphale actually _whined_, squirming in Crowley’s grasp, and damn was it a turn on—the angel all spread out for him, petulant and desperate.

Crowley’s hips jerked once without his consent, and the angel grinned knowingly.

“Yes. I did. And we can do it that way, if you want. But sometimes...”

He paused to release the angel’s wrist, reach down, and slowly pump the angel’s cock, mouth practically watering at the sight of the precum he was milking from the slit on every single pull.

“Sometimes the anticipation can make it much more enjoyable,” he finished, appreciating the way Aziraphale writhed and bucked up into his hand.

“Right. One more,” Crowley clarified, abandoning the angel’s cock and grouping four fingers together at his hole.

His cock wasn’t as thick as Aziraphale’s, and likely didn’t require a four-finger preparation, but he wanted to be thorough. He wanted his angel as open and relaxed as possible, to minimize the inevitable pain.

Aziraphale hardly reacted as the first three were pushed in, which was a wonderful sign, but he jerked and yelped as all four slid past his rim.

“Oh, that... that’s... a lot...” he said, halting his squirming and pulling another face.

Crowley paused immediately. “Alright? Want me to stop?”

“No, no, dear boy, just... slow, please...” Aziraphale asked, voice weak.

Crowley nodded, beginning to push in again.

“_Now,_ I recommend touching yourself. The pleasure will help distract you,” he suggested, feeling a momentarily selfish need to focus on the lovely, plush textures of the angel’s inner walls, to fantasize about how that tight, warm channel was going swallow him up deliciously. He quashed those thoughts with some effort, focusing fully on Aziraphale as the thickest part of his fingers stretched him open.

The angel made a few quick, punched-out noises, but took Crowley’s advice and returned to stroking his own cock, and soon enough, his face had returned to relaxed and blissed-out.

Crowley was suddenly flooded with nerves for the next part. This was where the pain could come in, and Crowley had never wanted to avoid something more. Slimy, wicked thoughts popped into his head, that Aziraphale was only doing this to please Crowley, that he didn’t actually _want it,_ that he was going to regret it...

“My dearest, my Crowley. You’re somewhere else, come back to me,” Aziraphale cooed, and Crowley snapped back to himself.

“Y-you still want this, right? You’re not j-just... doing this because I want it?” he squeaked, voice small.

Aziraphale softened, his rosy cheeks rising under sparkling azure eyes.

“My dear, _I asked you,” _Aziraphalewhispered, the hand that had been on his cock rising to rest on Crowley’s cheek. Crowley briefly noted the scent of the angel’s arousal on it, his mind a whirlwind of lust and anxiety, in equal measure. “I want this, I do. I want to feel you inside me. I want the heat of my body to bring you apart. I want to watch as you move inside me, with those bewitching, snakelike hips, watch as you find your pleasure. _I want to hear my name on your lips as you come inside me.”_

The passionate words inspired flashing images in Crowley’s mind, and those images had himtwitching and leaking precum onto Aziraphale’s hip.

“Bloody hell, angel,” he whispered, slowly pulling his fingers free.

Aziraphale grinned triumphantly, wiggled his hips far too suggestively, and nodded that he was ready.

Leaning up to kneel between Aziraphale’s spread legs, Crowley took the bottle of lube in his horrendously shaking hands, and wasted no time generously coating his cock. He twitched and bucked at the sensation, after having neglected himself for so long, and took a moment to give himself a few relieving strokes.

“Alright, it’ll be easier, angel, if you lift your legs a little, yep, just like that,” Crowley said as the angel pulled his vast, luscious thighs up a little, exposing his well-prepared hole. Crowley’s hips jerked again just at the sight.

Without even having to think about it, he offered his left hand to Aziraphale, which the angel took in a vice-like grip.

Sparing one final gaze up at Aziraphale’s open, adoring eyes, Crowley took himself in hand and pressed the head to Aziraphale’s hole, used it to massage a tiny ring around it, then pressed his hips forward.

He almost came then and there as the ridge of him popped past the rim of muscle and dove into obscenely tight, wet heat.

Both of them cried out together, Crowley’s choice of words far dirtier than Aziraphale’s muttered “oh, goodness.”

Slightly delirious just from having the tip of his cock inside, Crowley nearly doubled over from the effort of staying still. He wanted to chase that pressure, penetrate deep and feel himself nudging the angel’s second hole. But far more, he wanted to take reverent care of his angel’s virgin body, wanted to be gentle and doting and _good._

With monumental effort, Crowley managed to stay still, and speak.

“A-alr...right, a-angel?” he stuttered, his cock pulsing with need and forcing him to fight off the buck of his hips.

“Yes, my dear. You can try a little m-more,” Aziraphale replied shakily, his hand squeezing Crowley’s.

Instead of simply shoving in all at once, Crowley pulled back and began thrusting shallowly, working his way in farther on each one. It would help Aziraphale adjust gradually, but it was delicious torture on Crowley—his sensitive cock head getting constant stimulation from the angel’s tight rim.

Aziraphale was a blubbering and writhing mess, letting out little whimpers and moans, occasionally throwing in a drawn-out gasp of Crowley’s name that had the demon’s spine doing all sorts of icy acrobatics.

He’d worked in roughly half his length when Aziraphale tensed, letting out a yelp of the very not-good variety, and, to Crowley’s horror, reached down to push back at Crowley’s hip, _push him away._

Crowley stilled, knowing that pulling out in a hurry was likely to cause even more discomfort.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley, I just... I need a moment. It’s... there’s... just... a little bit of pain...”

Shame flooded Crowley, even though he’d known this was a possibility. _I didn’t prepare him well enough, I’m being too rough, going too fast._

“My dear, you’re being so good to me, please don’t fret. I can see it in your eyes. This is completely natural. Just keep going slow for me, please darling. I’m enjoying it, I really am. Keep going, just not too deep, not yet...”

The clarification soothed over Crowley’s nerves like Novocain, and he was distantly aware that he would have bristled at needing such reassurances in the past.

With a shaky nod, Crowley very slowly worked back up a rhythm, never going more than halfway in, and the pleasure began to build.

Aziraphale was _so tight_, and _so warm, _Crowley started to wonder if sex with an angel was simply better than sex with a human—it had certainly never felt this good with any of the humans, not a single one.

“Mmmmm, look at you, holding back for me,” Aziraphale groaned, and Crowley looked down to find himself shivering all over with restraint. His hips burned to thrust hard and fast into that wet pressure, and they stuttered every time he held them back, kept them slow and steady.

Aziraphale reached for him again with his free hand, his lovely soft fingertips tracing over Crowley’s working abdominal muscles. The touch was like fire, and it went straight to his cock, causing Crowley’s hips to jerk forward, quite a bit farther in than he’d been pushing.

Aziraphale threw his head back, his hand on Crowley’s tightening exponentially, but before Crowley could even apologize, Aziraphale was reassuring him.

“Oh, oh, Crowley, I... I think I’m ready... _do that again...”_

_“Fuck,”_ Crowley cursed, knowing he wouldn’t last much longer if he went deeper.

Trying to head off any more potential pain, he took Aziraphale’s cock in hand before resuming his thrusting, and _squeezed _as he pumped.

_“Crowley, oh... yes, yes!” _Aziraphale began in a litany of breathy praises, and Crowley bit his lip hard to keep from coming as he began shallowly thrusting in deeper.

The angel was taking him beautifully, and Crowley felt the need to scream—Aziraphale’s inner walls catching on his cock head and practically sucking him inside.

“_Fuck, angel... I’m not gunna last like this...”_ he groaned, and he was so distracted by the pleasure, that he didn’t notice he’d bottomed out until his hips contacted the angel’s thighs.

“Ohhhhhhh, please, just a little more for me, Crowley... it’s... oh it feels... oh, the tip of your cock... it’s right... right...”

Not even devoting the concentration necessary to hearing Aziraphale say the word _cock,_ Crowley began offering up extremely shallow thrusts, barely moving, but apparently contacting the angel’s second hole.

Aziraphale went stiff, back starting to arch.

_“Crowley! Oh God, Crowley, just like that, yes!” _Aziraphale was practically shouting, hips beginning to follow Crowley’s movement.

Crowley bit his lip again, hard enough that he tasted a bit of blood, in an effort to hold off his orgasm. It was cresting, pulsing in his pelvis as his entire shaft was stimulated with mind-numbing pressure. The dam was barely holding, and he was absently aware that he was coating the angel’s channel with jets of precum.

Aziraphale’s free hand covered Crowley’s on his cock, insinuating he move faster. Crowley obliged, and the two of them worked their hands together on the angel’s cock, whining pants filling the room.

_“C-Crowley, I’m... ohhhh, Crowley!!!” _Aziraphale cried out, body spasming as he came in a constant, heavy, thick stream that coated both their hands. Crowley briefly noted the incredible feeling of the angel’s cock twitching and pulsing against his fingers, but he was soon lost to the way Aziraphale’s hole tightened and fluttered around his cock.

_“Fuckfuckfuck...”_ he whimpered, gripping Aziraphale’s hand tighter for stability as his orgasm rampaged through him. Still giving the angel shallow thrusts, he trembled all over as he felt himself spurting four, five, _six _times deep inside Aziraphale, until finally, blessedly, he was able to collapse forward, releasing the angel’s cock to barely catch himself and hover over him. His hips gave helpless little thrusts as he rode out the aftershocks, and every time he did, Aziraphale’s did too, as his cock continued to hit his prostate. Aziraphale’s eyes held Crowley’s through all of it, wonder and awe painted across his face as he watched the shifting expressions on Crowley’s.

“Erm... _wow_,” Aziraphale said, tender and soft, his normally fluffy blonde hair sweat-soaked and matted to his forehead, his temples. He was trembling all over, his thighs gripping and releasing Crowley’s hips with the dying aftershocks.

Crowley smiled, eyes barely able to stay open with the overwhelming pleasure and exhaustion, and he reached up to brush the angel’s hair back, give him some air on his heated skin.

“Yes, _wow is right,”_ he said, voice hoarse from the panting. Again.

Gingerly, he pushed back slightly, rolling his hips away and sliding free of Aziraphale.

“Oh! Oh, gracious, is that all yours?” Aziraphale asked with a wriggle, and Crowley languidly looked down to find a flood of cum following his retreat.

He giggled, rather impressed with himself, after having three orgasms previous.

“Well it’s certainly not _yours_,” he said in jest, miracling up a warm, wet washcloth and soothing it up the angel’s well-used bum.

Aziraphale hummed with contentment, his eyes rolling closed and his head falling back onto the pillow. “You could just miracle that away...”

His tone suggested he definitely _didn’t _want Crowley to do that, and was very much enjoying the pampering.

“You said you wanted _authentic, _angel,” Crowley said, wiping away the last of his spend from Aziraphale’s hole, folding the cloth in half to contain it, and going for Aziraphale’s cum-covered and now relaxed shaft.

The angel twitched as Crowley methodically cleaned and soothed him. “Plus,” he went on, miracling up a second, cooler washcloth to brush over the angel’s sweaty chest, the back of his neck, and his forehead. “I want to take care of you the way you take care of me. It’s all _very demonic,_ I assure you.” With a dramatic flip of the hand, the washcloths ceased to exist (just because he wanted to take care of Aziraphale the authentic way, did not mean he wanted to do authentic laundry).

Aziraphale’s eyes peeked back open, their color somehow glowing as he peered down at Crowley.

“I love you so terribly much, you lovely creature,” he declared, voice softer than cotton.

Crowley crawled over to recline next to Aziraphale, leaning in to pause just before kissing him.

“And I love you, my angel.”

The words burned his tongue like they always did, but Aziraphale quickly closed the distance, sucking it into his mouth and soothing away the sting with reverent strokes of his own tongue, and even a hint of teeth. What should have been pain registered like static electricity in his mouth.

Finally allowing himself to feel the fatigue in his limbs, Crowley sighed comfortably and collapsed to lie next the angel and catch his breath.

“D’you know, I’ve worked up quite an appetite?!” Aziraphale mused toward the ceiling, and Crowley could only grunt in agreement.

“Would you be a love, and take me to that nice little hole-in-the-wall Italian place at the end of the lane? I’m craving _meatballs.”_

Sacrificing the opportunity to pounce on meat and ball jokes, Crowley scooted in closer and settled his head on the angel’s shoulder.

“Only if you let me nap for a bit, just a little one. As it is, I doubt I could walk without a substantial miracle,” Crowley grumbled, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

Aziraphale wiggled proudly under Crowley’s chin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Suddenly Crowley’s left arm was being raised, and he could tell by its position that Aziraphale was peering at his watch.

“How do you read this ruddy thing? Are these runes??” Aziraphale tutted primly. “Gracious, half past four! We’ve been at it for six hours!”

Crowley smiled, pressing a kiss to the angel’s bare shoulder. “Time flies when you’re having wild sex.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed, and instead of replacing Crowley’s hand where it had been, he pressed it to his own heart, then rested his own hand atop it. Dizziness swept over Crowley at the beautiful feeling of Aziraphale’s calming heart thudding wildly beneath his fingertips.

“One hour,” Aziraphale hummed. “You get a one-hour nap, and then we’re going out for spaghetti and an offensive amount of red wine.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, angel,” Crowley replied with a yawn, already dozing off.

****

They weren’t sitting down to eat until nearly 8, but it was no fault of Crowley’s. He’d woken exactly when he was supposed to, decided to take a quick shower (not to get clean, per se, but because his muscles were sore from hours of marathon sex, and the temptation of searing hot water was too much to pass up).

He hadn’t been in but two minutes when an angel slyly pulled back the shower curtain and gave him the world’s most pitiful ‘may I join you?’ look.

After that, the shower had devolved very rapidly from getting clean and soothing soreness, to getting _filthy_ and notably _more sore._

The sun was just about to set when the young hostess seated them out on the empty patio at Bellici’s, lighting a small fire pit to ward off the incoming ocean chill that typically accompanied the darkness.

The place was decorated a little campy, red and white tiles a mainstay in the decor, with tiny replicas of famous statues in Italy placed in strategic locations both indoors and out. But they had been here before, long, _long_ ago, during their very first trip to the Downs, and the food was exquisite—worth dealing with some cliché ambiance choices.

Initially, they’d taken their typical seats across from one another, but after a moment of intense and burdened staring from Aziraphale, the angel promptly rose from his seat, scooted it right next to Crowley, and sat back down with a proud little huff. He’d placed his hand on the back of Crowley’s neck, then, and rhythmically played with his hair as he perused the menu in his other hand.

Crowley’s mind was running in circles in a way it never had before. Where he used to be constantly burdened by sneaky, nasty little intrusive thoughts, now he found himself unable to look at Aziraphale for long without envisioning any number of compromising, blissful images. The angel’s fingers on his neck made a shiver run down his spine, Aziraphale’s tongue peeking out to subconsciously lick his lower lip when he found something particularly scrumptious-looking on the menu made Crowley have to shift in his seat, heat pooling in his gut. Even the way the angel’s ruddy eyes intensely scanned down the menu items made Crowley envision himself laid out on the bed, Aziraphale’s hungry eyes working their way _oh so slowly_ down Crowley’s eager and ready body.

“My dear, you’re hissing,” Aziraphale said without looking up from his menu, hand squeezing gently on Crowley’s neck.

“Ssss’rry,” Crowley slurred, struggling to make the hissing stop when he was just so damn content.

“Oh, I don’t mind it in the slightest. In fact I find it quite _cute_-”

Crowley grumbled at the word, but Aziraphale went on, looking up at him,

“I just know that _you _don’t like when you do it. What were you thinking of that had you forgetting yourself, dear boy?”

More images flooded Crowley as he found himself locked on those ocean tempest eyes—_his own body practically vibrating as he moved tentatively, those same eyes wide and passionate as he convulsed with pleasure._

“Ah, I see,” Aziraphale said simply, squeezing Crowley’s neck again. “I’m having the same problem. I’ve read over the same four items three times, and keep getting hung up on the word ‘sausage’.”

Crowley snorted, and if he’d been drinking, he’d be wearing it.

Aziraphale beamed. “Do you know... I don’t recall ever seeing you blush before the... non-apocalypse. I like it.”

Overwhelmed with adoration for his angel, Crowley peered around quickly, then snapped back around and kissed him heartily.

Their server returned with their chosen bottle of red wine, popped the cork, brandished a glass, poured a single sip, then promptly paused, looking stuck for a moment, before she recovered clumsily by looking up at both of them in turn.

“Would you both like to test it?” she asked warily.

In the past, Crowley might have grumbled about the arbitrary power structure inherent within human gender roles, but he was too comfortable to summon the energy. Instead, he waved a hand at Aziraphale flippantly.

“His palette’s better,” he clipped, and watched as the angel took the glass, swirled the wine around, sniffed it, then pressed his lips to the rim of the glass and sipped delicately.

It made a flash of heat rocket down Crowley’s spine, and he was beginning to get worried. Would he always react like this to such mundane acts? Was every little thing Aziraphale did always going to excite him to inappropriate levels? He didn’t particularly mind, but it was going to make acting like a normal human in public much more tiresome.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale practically moaned, giving the wine an approving nod. Yet again, Crowley’s mind went back to the Bentley the previous morning, Aziraphale pulling away and dabbing at his lips. _Delectable._

The server poured their glasses, set the bottle down in the center of the table, and pulled her tiny clipboard from her hip.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, sounding tired. Crowley made a mental note to tip the girl a little something extra. Probably exhausted from working long shifts on a small staff, in a small town where restaurants only thrived on the whim of locals.

Aziraphale got his spaghetti and meatballs, as he’d said he was craving, as well as a small Ceaser.

“And for your hus—” the girl caught herself, mortification turning her face beet red. She turned to Crowley, notably looking at his chin and not at his covered eyes. “For you, sir?”

In the past, he might’ve stoked the girl’s embarrassment just for fun, or done something to drag Aziraphale into the humiliation, but... now he was simply flattered the girl thought that. He wasn’t one for the whole marriage _thing,_ it was horrendously flawed and so terribly _human_, but the idea that, upon first glance, he and Aziraphale appeared so devoted to one another, that a human _equated it_ to marriage... it was rather endearing.

Crowley gave the girl a sly grin and simply ignored her slip-up. He was really only ordering to indulge the angel, so he got something light—a white wine clam sauce with linguini. He’d probably end up prodding Aziraphale to eat half of it anyway.

The girl shuffled away quickly, and Crowley’s keen hearing detected her chastising herself for presuming, and it was going to affect her tip, and _fuck._

And she was right. It was going to affect her tip. Probably enough to pay off any and all loans she did and ever would have.

“Dearest, may I ask you a rather personal question?” came Aziraphale’s velvet-soft voice.

Crowley twisted back to face the angel and, after letting the girl off the hook, feeling a need for mischief bubbling up in his throat like a rather impressive belch.

“Angel... I’ve had your arse in my mouth within the day, I think we’re beyond asking permission for ‘personal’ queries,” he said flatly, but with a hint of a grin as he picked up his wine and tasted it. It really was very good—earthy and rich, and sporting a hint of something like... chocolate?

Aziraphale’s high, round cheeks turned a shade that challenged his wine, and he bashfully looked away for a moment. Oh, how Crowley loved making him blush.

“Right, well, that’s... erm... fair point, Crowley,” Aziraphale blustered as he turned back. He picked up his own wine, but instead of drinking it, he cradled it near his face, hiding his mouth, which piqued Crowley’s curiosity on the subject of his question.

“My dear... and don’t take this the wrong way, I very much appreciate your attentiveness and caution, but... you’re very... plagued by doubt... in the bedroom. You’re always asking if I’m sure, asking if I really want it, those kinds of things. And again, I really do appreciate that, with me being so inexperienced, you’re so careful. But... I feel that... sometimes it’s not only that, but... I know how you can get. You manage to convince yourself of these nasty lies, and I fear you’re still doing it, to an extent. That, when we’re being intimate, you’re telling yourself you don’t deserve it, or that I don’t really want you, that way. And no matter how many times I reassure you, you find new, breathtaking ways to turn the tides on yourself. Is... is that... what’s happening?”

Crowley gulped, stricken and caught. He’d hoped that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed all that; that he’d assumed Crowley was just being cautious with his inexperience. But he was completely right—Crowley just couldn’t turn his mind off, even when in the throes of passion. He was constantly worrying for Aziraphale’s comfort, worrying for his enjoyment of the more sinful side of love.

“I... ngk, yeah. It... it is. To an extent,” he mumbled, setting his glass on the white linen tablecloth and beginning to spin it nervously. He stared at it as the liquid formed a tiny whirlpool, intent on avoiding the angel’s imploring eyes. “I just... this is... _sex, _it’s...” he lowered his voice to a mere whisper, “it’s my domain, and... statistically, things in my domain don’t last very long. I... I try to be careful, but... like the beast you worried your love was, my lust for you, it’s... it’s worse. Rabid, feral, vicious. I’m...” his throat closed up at the prospect of admitting, but he pushed past it with a cough, “I’m so scared I’ll hurt you, or frighten you with how... how... _passionate_ I can be. And even when you’re actively reassuring me, I can’t... I can’t make myself believe you. I just... my mind, it’s...” he waved a hand vaguely at his own head, “dunno. Maybe something went wrong when I Fell. Maybe doubt is inherent in the hearts of all demons. But... I’m _exceptionally_ good at it.”

He looked up finally, and the heartbreak that was clear in every molecule of the angel’s face was like a shot to the heart.

“But it’s fine, really, I’ll de-“

The scolding look that immediately flashed across the angel’s expression was like lightning, and Crowley instantly remembered. _‘Deal with it. I hate that phrase.’_

Crowley swallowed again, pursing his lips as he fished in his limited barrel of synonyms.

“I... I’m... _I’m working on it,”_ he tried, hoping the more constructive implications would placate his currently judgmental angel.

Aziraphale quickly abandoned his wine, reached under the table to where Crowley’s hand was resting on his thigh, and took it into a sure, tight grip.

_“We, Crowley,”_ he said, voice overflowing with adoration. “_We_ will work on it. What can I do to help you?”

Crowley squirmed. Personal improvement was generally frowned upon, in demons, and even though that didn’t matter anymore, he still felt it needling in his chest.

“I’ve an idea,” Aziraphale said, confidence and a hint of mischief, which was never good, on his lips.

“Well that’s frightening,” Crowley quipped, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand in weak punishment for the jab.

“Well, the only time you weren’t questioning was... was when I had you...” he lowered his voice to a more private timbre, “overstimulated. Your mind was incapable of focusing on anything else.

“How about, at an interval to be determined at a later time, perhaps once a month or so, or however long it takes to keep your doubt at bay...” the angel leaned in and placed his lips at Crowley’s ear, his warm, wine-scented breath brushing the tiny hairs at Crowley’s nape.

“I take you apart. Make you forget your own name—make you forget any words that aren’t _my_ name. And maybe ‘please,’ I’ll decide later. I shall turn your flesh into a canvas upon which to paint all the colors of your pleasure. Render your vocal chords a choir to my praises, your lips the trumpet of my songs. I’ll use your feathers for quills to write the poetry of your cries of ecstasy. You think that might help, my dear?”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. He didn’t think he’d ever heard something so simultaneously sensual and kinky. And his mind (and body) were both _very interested._

He nodded enthusiastically as Aziraphale leaned back into his chair, a painfully smug grin on his bastard face.

“Yeah,” Crowley tried to say, and when nothing came out, he just mouthed it.

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale said, acting like he’d suggested they go see a film, or pick up some specialty groceries.

Dinner passed by in a blissful haze of wine, food, and conversation. It was like old times, Crowley’s fears about anything fundamental in their relationship changing being completely unfounded. It was easy and simple, their back and forth banter sliding off the tongue like the wine sliding back. There was the one notable difference; Crowley couldn’t stop seeing Aziraphale’s more carnal side whenever the angel did anything remotely suggestive (or anything, rather, it didn’t have to actually _be _suggestive for Crowley’s mind to make it so), but it became clear that Aziraphale was having the same problem.

Over the course of dinner, they’d learned to note ‘the look’ on each other’s faces, descending into private giggles whenever it happened with humans nearby (the giggles increased in frequency and volume on a 1:1 ratio with bottles consumed).

It wasn’t until dessert eventually arrived—a delightful little cherry chocolate panna cotta that was so light and airy it was like licking clouds—and Crowley was feeling just drunk and brazen enough to spoon-feed the angel the creamy treat, that those ‘I’m thinking about it’ looks turned into ‘I’m craving it’ stares.

And by the time Aziraphale was (quite lasciviously) licking the last of the white cream and thick chocolate sauce from the spoon, Crowley was having difficulty hiding his excitement. The angel certainly didn’t help, because as _soon_ as he realized the effect he was having on his dinner companion, he slid his hand under the draped tablecloth and simply _pressed_ his palm against Crowley’s crotch. And when the server returned a final time to deliver the cheque, the bastard began rubbing, slow and deliberate, just to see if Crowley could keep his composure.

Naturally, Crowley could. At this point, he was incredibly well-practiced at hiding his lust for Aziraphale. But the moment they settled the bill (with a tip that made her drop her clipboard), Crowley was yanking Aziraphale to his feet and channeling his inner shepherd dog to herd the angel to the Bentley.

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever driven faster, road to Tadfield while on fire included. He didn’t even spare a thought to how like overeager teenagers they were as they stumbled into the cottage, kissing and caressing anything they could reach of each other. How they apparently weren’t going to make it to the bedroom, Aziraphale crowding Crowley against the wall just inside, barely managing to kick the door closed before tearing at Crowley’s overpriced belt, his ridiculously tight trousers.

Crowley vanished his shoes and went to work shimmying from his trousers and pants while Aziraphale, hands shaking quite badly, shoved his own trousers and pants down his thighs. His cock was gorgeous, thick and hard, and Crowley barely registered that he miracled himself prepared at the sight.

“Do you need... should I get...” Aziraphale stammered, reaching out to caress a hand around Crowley’s waist to rove over a cheek.

Goosebumps exploded over Crowley’s skin, and his vision spun—whether it was from the angel’s intoxicating touch or the lingering wine, he didn’t care to know.

“No,” Crowley gasped, looping an arm around the angel’s neck and throwing a leg up to suggest he pick him up. “Already taken care of. Can’t...” he paused as Aziraphale obliged, grasping both of Crowley’s thighs in a sure grip and hoisting him against the wall. Crowley swung his legs around the angel’s backside, locking his ankles, and pressed frantic kisses to the angel’s neck and shoulder, the fibers of his shirt collar and waistcoat practically an aphrodisiac against Crowley’s lips. “Can’t wait, need... _need you now!”_

Aziraphale grunted, rearranging himself to hold beneath Crowley’s bum with one hand and guide his cock with the other. He pressed in rather quicker and rougher than usual, but that was to be expected with Crowley’s weight entirely suspended.

He cried out and threw his head back so hard it contacted the wall and made him see stars as the angel immediately slid all the way in. The stretch was only momentarily painful, more surprising than anything, and then pleasure was surging through him as Aziraphale began to move.

Crowley cried out—it might have been a word, Aziraphale’s name, or just a guttural sound—and threw a hand straight up to slap against the wall.

He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him, but the edge of desperation wasn’t ebbing, even though Aziraphale was inside him.

_“Harder!”_ he hissed, dipping his head in to sink his teeth into the angel’s shoulder, and getting a mouthful of velvet waistcoat. He didn’t care. _I like it when you use your teeth on me,_ Aziraphale had said.

The angel yelped, but apparently it was a good one, because his hips picked up pace dramatically. Crowley groaned as he was repeatedly drilled against the wall, the sound of Aziraphale’s skin hitting his own delightfully naughty. At this angle, prostate stimulation was virtually impossible, but he didn’t mind, because his cock was getting plenty stimulated, trapped as it was between their writhing bodies.

As if sensing this, however, Aziraphale heaved a grunt, gathered Crowley up securely, and spun around (staying buried inside Crowley as he did) and shuffled to the little nook table by the bay window. Fairly dropping Crowley onto his back on the table’s surface, Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s thighs and used them as leverage to begin hammering his hips forward, his own frenzy clear in the twist of his pleasure-soaked features.

Moonlight washed over Crowley, and he realized he was in plain view of the bay window; anyone driving by would see him being split open by a lust-mad angel. The realization excited him beyond reason, and he reached down to grab the edge of the table with both hands, hoping to stabilize its rocking a bit.

Aziraphale abandoned a thigh, his hand bypassing where Crowley desperately wanted it, to push his shirt up his stomach. Once it was bared, the angel’s torturously perfect fingers were petting, caressing up and down his stomach, his abs, up to his nipples.

“Angel... _angel... fuck, harder,”_ he gasped, throat dry from gasping for air and vision going white at the edges.

Knowing Aziraphale, he was afraid to go harder (likely wary of hurting Crowley), so he appeared to compromise by actually slowing down, but shoving as far in as he could go.

The white in Crowley’s vision burst into stars as he felt the angel’s cock head open him up even farther, and he cried out. The sound of his muscles sucking Aziraphale in was obscene and delicious, and Crowley began moaning with each brutal push.

Aziraphale rearranged again, bringing one of Crowley’s legs up to prop on his shoulder, and then he was lifting Crowley’s hips to change the angle...

“Oh fuck!” Crowley practically screamed as Aziraphale began hitting his prostate.

The angel seemed nearly delirious—eyes rolling back as he turned his head to the side and nipped at Crowley’s calf, just below the sensitive flesh of his knee.

Within three or four good thrusts, Crowley was coming all over his own stomach, completely untouched, the stream spilling down his abdomen in powerful spurts that had his cock lifting up off his stomach with each incredible spasm.

But Aziraphale wasn’t done yet, his hips pistoning as he chased his own orgasm. It gave Crowley a chance to admire him while he moved—thick lines of muscle just barely visible beneath his pillowy flesh, in his biceps, his pecs, his abdomen. His skin was alight... _literally _beginning to glow as his movements became choppy and arhythmic. Crowley knew from experience what that meant, so he decided to help.

“Uhn, angel, you feel so good, I can feel you... ssstretching me, fuck... p-please... need to feel you... come... inside me...”

With an impressive grunt and a final thrust deep inside, Aziraphale stilled, his eyes finding Crowley’s just at the moment of explosion.

It was both transcendent and filthy—watching pure, unfiltered pleasure on Aziraphale’s face, while at the same time feeling his thick cock expand a little before the warmth of his cum was filling him. Aziraphale was still for a moment while his cock pulsed, then he was pulsating his hips in short little bursts through the remainder of his orgasm. His thighs quivered with every thrust, clearly threatening to give out.

Then they were both still, practically hyperventilating from the frenzied exertion. Aziraphale stayed inside Crowley while he caught his breath, and the demon was thankful for the opportunity to relax a bit before the angel slowly stepped back and slid free with an obscene _pop._

“_Someone _Almighty,” Crowley groaned, twitching as he felt Aziraphale’s impressive load trickling out of him to drip to the table and floor. “Sorry, angel, don’t know what came over me...”

His doubt was rising back up, sinister and sneering. Did Aziraphale even like it rough and hurried? He struck Crowley as more of the slow and passionate lovemaking type, not the foundation-shifting fucking type.

Aziraphale sighed, reaching up to hook a finger in his bow tie and loosen it as his hips jerked with an aftershock.

“Quite... quite alright, my love. I was feeling the same,” he swallowed, his throat clicking drily. “I don’t... I don’t think leaving was such a good idea. Once I got the urge to ravish you, waiting only made it worse.”

“Same,” Crowley croaked, waving a hand to clean them both (and the table, and the floor) up. He went to sit up, and his abdominal muscles rebelled, and he found himself flopping back to the table. He laughed, as did Aziraphale; an easy camaraderie that left them both stumbling into each other when Aziraphale hauled him to his feet. They were quite the sight—Crowley, wearing only his shirt (_and oh bloody heaven, his sunglasses... he’d fucked with the sunglasses on), _and Aziraphale, bow tie yanked loose, spit-soaked bite mark on his waistcoat, and pants and trousers around his ankles.

Crowley smiled, overwhelmingly happy, and placed his pointer finger beneath the angel’s chin to tilt it up for a kiss.

“Bed?” he asked, still panting slightly.

“For _sleeping, _or...?” Aziraphale inquired, an eyebrow rising.

Crowley shrugged. “We’ll see. Loads of things could happen between here and the bedroom.”

“Touché,” Aziraphale said, deciding to kick off his shoes and simply step out of his trousers and pants instead of pulling them back up just to walk to the bedroom. “Lead on, foul tempter.”

“So long as you follow, lovely angel,” Crowley singsonged, coy as ever.

“Always,” Aziraphale said, gathering up his clothes from the floor and following.

*****

“Darling, you seem to enjoy being in your serpent form, but you never do it... why is that?” Aziraphale asked from the doorway.

He’d been in his library, reorganizing. He decided that he’d like to bring a few more tomes down from London to keep at the cottage, but as things were, there was only sporadic room on the ends of shelves, so the new volumes would have to be separated, with no way to categorize them. That just wouldn’t do. He kept his bookshop deliberately disorganized (_disorganized?!_ he could hear Crowley objecting. _War zone more like... bloody disaster zone) _so that customers would have a frustrating time locating anything. But Eden Cottage was his haven now, and there was no reason for tricks and mind games. Here, he was safe to be himself.

He’d been passing by the reading nook on the north end of his small library, stack of precariously-balanced books in hand, and caught sight of Crowley out in the conservatory. He seemed to have paused in the center of the humid glass structure, body perfectly positioned in the center of a likely very warm sunbeam. Dirt was still staining his long, lovely fingers, and he was barely holding a spade in his left hand.

Head turned up into the light, posture relaxed and calm, the demon was an absolute marvel; smooth, lovely skin practically shimmering in the golden light, eyes closed peacefully and chest rising in a steady rhythm. And that was when Aziraphale had noticed it—the demon’s long, thin, forked tongue flaring out lazily to taste the warm, earthy air. It had gotten him thinking about Crowley’s serpent form, and why it had been literal years since he’d seen him take it.

Crowley grunted, meandering from the row of metal troughs to a large porcelain planter in the corner, where Crowley was attempting to grow, of all things, roses.

“Nnyeah, it’s... I just... I have this... I’m...” Crowley grumbled as he stuck his finger in the, as yet, barren rose bush soil up to the first knuckle, his split tongue flaring out again.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, waiting until those uncovered sunflower eyes finally turned and met his. He gave him ‘the look,’ then, one he knew said it all; ‘_you’re doing it again—prancing around a topic that no longer requires prancing. You don’t have to hide from me anymore. I don’t blame you in the slightest, I have the same problem. But I want you to be aware that you’re doing it, and work on quitting.’_

Crowley inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out through his nose.

“Right,” he said, tone much more relaxed. “I _do_ enjoy being in my snake form. No limbs to worry about, coordinate, and the brain, it’s... it’s different. Simpler. Not that that really matters for us, not really, but it’s... it’s easier for me to narrow down the maelstrom, in here,” he gestured broadly around his head with the spade, dripping clumps of dirt to the ground. “Kind of... contain it all, jam it into a smaller box, so there’s no room for... for...”

“The mess?” Aziraphale pushed gently but with a nudge of mirth.

Crowley deflated, looking defeated and disappointed. “Yeah.”

Trying not to let his pity show, Aziraphale descended the two small wooden stairs leading from his library out into the conservatory. They creaked, pulling Crowley’s attention back, and he stilled, not unlike a gargoyle. Aziraphale approached him, brushing a hand up and down the demon’s arm in comfort.

“So... you don’t do it, because...?” he asked, staying his hand under Crowley’s elbow and simply holding it there. Though he tried to hide it, the demon relaxed into the support, shifting his weight toward it.

“V’said. Don’t like changing shape... m’afraid I’ll... get stuck, ‘member?” he mumbled somewhat bashfully, looking down at the spade and methodically brushing the dirt away that clung to it.

“Oh, yes, I do recall something to that effect, that you said at... oh, goodness me, must have been... at the nun’s convent?” Aziraphale said, trying not to give away how clearly and fondly he remembered the event.

“You remember that?!” Crowley said, incredulous.

“Oh yes, my dear. Not sure what about it stuck so hard in my mind’s eye, but... even though you’d frightened the piss out of that young man, I was incredibly endeared by the fact that you fretted about it instantly. Took the wind out of your sails, I’m afraid, as a big, bad demon.”

Crowley smiled, and Aziraphale lost his breath again.

“Those sails have always been a bit shite, if you ask me. Shredded, at best,” the demon said with a lopsided shrug, stepping back and grabbing a mister, which he took to the rose bush soil.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself _too short,_ dearest, they got the job done for a number of millennia,” Aziraphale retorted, finding no harm in inflating his love’s ego, just a little.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Nah, that was all tongue. Of the sterling variety,” he finished, hissing and releasing a forked tongue wiggle that made Aziraphale feel both adoration and slight arousal, in equal but confusing measure.

“Well... if you do so enjoy being a snake, then... I could help you,” he offered, straightening with pride at the idea.

“Help me?” Crowley said in a deadpan, turning to face Aziraphale once more. “Uh huh... and when was the last time _you_ were a snake?”

“No need to be petulant darling,” Aziraphale said, hardly even scolding. “And I don’t need to have been a snake, I just need to have been a man... er... man-shaped creature.”

Crowley gave him a very flat, very unimpressed look.

“Mmhmm. I still fail to see how you would walk someone through changing from snake-shaped to human-shaped when you, yourself, have never done it.”

Aziraphale huffed, frustrated at his own inability to clearly articulate what he was getting at.

“You’re thinking in broad, non-specific terms, dearest,” Aziraphale said, closing the distance once more. “I don’t need to walk _someone_ through it, I’d need to walk _you _through it—a much more refined task. And I wouldn’t need to describe just any old human shape, I’d need to describe _yours_. A shape that, quite recently in fact, I’ve come to know _very well.”_

Crowley blushed, and Aziraphale felt triumph begin to bubble up in his lungs.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” he continued.

He stepped even closer, close enough to feel the hitch in Crowley’s breath hit his face. Reaching up, he gently and reverently pushed his fingers into Crowley’s hair and raked them backwards.

“Let’s start at the top,” Aziraphale began, voice low and sensual. “Lovely, soft chestnut hair that gleams in the light like fire. The length is of little import; it’s always flawless and beautiful.”

After letting his fingers rake through as far as he could reach, he pulled them back out and migrated to an eyebrow, which he followed the shape of delicately, watching Crowley’s eyes slide closed in comfort.

“Two eyes, deep-set and almond-shaped, their gaze sharp and intense. The color and pupil, of course, you won’t need to worry about...”

Crowley grinned—an easy, closed-lipped thing that made Aziraphale want to kiss him. _Later,_ he told himself confidently.

He dragged his pointer finger down Crowley’s nose, “a long but proportionate nose, not as useful as the serpent one, but I digress...” he poked the end, and Crowley laughed. “Still a nice nose,” Aziraphale finished, moving to cup the demon’s cheek. Crowley, of course, leaned into it, keeping his eyes closed.

“High, angular cheekbones that could cut glass...”

_“Angel...”_ Crowley interrupted fondly, coloring at the praising description. Aziraphale was not deterred, however.

“...and a jawline that artists would kill to carve into stone.”

Crowley smiled even wider, his teeth barely visible. Aziraphale felt a flash of heat then, knowing exactly the effect he was about to have.

“And lips...” he started in a whisper, leaving his four fingers splayed out on Crowley’s cheek but bringing the thumb to trace those plush, soft lips. Crowley’s smile vanished and his eyes popped open to stare intensely at Aziraphale as he continued.

“Lips that brought humanity to its knees...” he traced over the lower one, feeling the demon’s increasing breaths hot against his fingertip. “And an angel, too...”

Crowley notably stopped breathing, his Adam’s Apple bobbing convulsively. The spade hit the cement floor with a clang, and Crowley took a tiny step forward into the minimal space left between them.

“The tongue you needn’t worry yourself over either...” he went on, daring to press his thumb between Crowley’s lips and feeling a very enthusiastic but very non-human lick to the tip. Soon after, Crowley was closing his lips around it, kissing his thumb and sucking on it at the same time.

Fire erupted in Aziraphale’s gut, and he had half a mind to shove the demon up against one of the metal troughs and show his plants that he _was_ capable of being _soft_.

_Later,_ he told himself again, the conviction rapidly disappearing. He still had a point to prove.

He pulled his thumb out of Crowley’s mouth, the act itself incredibly erotic, as the skin shined with spit.

“And that throat...” Aziraphale continued, knowing he had blasted past _the point _and was now torturing Crowley. But he was going to do it for however long Crowley would allow it, and then... then that _later_ list was going to earn some check marks.

“Ohhhhh, that throat is like a Grecian column—long and graceful...” he caressed down Crowley’s jaw to, very gently, place his hand around the demon’s neck, feeling the Adam’s Apple bob again against his palm.

_“Aziraphale, I think you’ve made your point...” _Crowley croaked, and Aziraphale could feel the vibrations of Crowley’s lovely voice in his hand, in his fingertips—could see in his periphery the tented trousers to prove it. But he wasn’t done being a bastard about this yet.

“Oh, I _really_ don’t think I have,” he crooned, dragging his hand down the demon’s neck to trace over the collar bones and the dip between them, all barely peeking out of the v-neck shirt he was wearing. He caressed back and forth over the sharp bone lines, watching a shudder rip through Crowley and leave goosebumps in its wake.

“The skeleton shouldn’t give you too much grief, they’re all pretty much the same... rather fewer vertebrae and ribs, though, than the serpent...” Aziraphale said flippantly, allowing his fingers to practically drip down Crowley’s chest, over a hardened nipple that was peaking through his thin cotton shirt, to his highest rib, just below the armpit.

“Let’s see... one... two... three...” it wasn’t that he didn’t know how many there were supposed to be, he did. Intimately. Namely because ribs had played quite a memorable role in the formation of man, in those early days. No, he was simply relishing the opportunity to allow his fingertips to dance over the barely-there ridges of the demon’s ribs, tickling and arousing him all at once.

_“Please...”_ Crowley whimpered with a shudder, eyes closing again and head falling forward to rest against Aziraphale’s.

“Please, what, my dearest?” he said, knowing how cruel he was being but also knowing that Crowley relished the tease.

Crowley did nothing but whine, so Aziraphale continued.

“The hips are a feat, I’ll give you that,” he whispered directly into Crowley’s ear as he brought his other hand forward and bracketed both hips in his hands. He toyed with the hem of Crowley’s shirt, working his thumbs beneath it to rub them against those sharp, jutting bones. “They’re human shaped, but they manage to remain incredibly serpentine in their movements,” he said, squeezing slightly and earning himself a full-body jerk. “Not sure how you manage that, to be quite honest. You’ll have to show me, sometime...”

Without warning, Aziraphale was being bodily shoved back until his bum hit one of the metal troughs, and Crowley was suddenly pressed fully against him, lips hungrily joining with his. His hips were already rocking, and Aziraphale found himself half-hard in response.

Every movement of their lips had Crowley whimpering desperately, and pity and pride welled within Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d tortured the demon a little _too much_, but he simply couldn’t resist.

He allowed his hands to travel back around Crowley’s waist to his bum, and grabbed a cheek in each hand firmly, pulling him in even tighter against himself.

Crowley stilled, breaking the kiss to release a terribly trembling gasp against Aziraphale’s kiss-wet lips.

“Snakes certainly don’t have this perfect arse,” he remarked, releasing his grip and smoothing his hands in little circular motions against the small globes of flesh.

Crowley released a much louder, more desperate sound, and suddenly Aziraphale found himself on his back between the trough rows, atop a mountain of pillows and blankets, both of their clothing gone. The air in the conservatory was warm and humid against his newly-bared skin, and he could see little droplets of moisture on Crowley’s chest as he crouched down over Aziraphale and began peppering kisses, licks, and nibbles to the angel’s round stomach and then his thighs.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure where his obsession with Crowley’s teeth came from, but the danger of it excited him beyond reason—they’d discovered shortly after Eden that Crowley possessed a very special occult venom that was particularly harmful to angels. He’d never once used it on Aziraphale, even before the Arrangement, and that knowledge made Aziraphale feel exceedingly safe. He knew it was bizarre—knowing Crowley had venom that could hurt him irreparably, but knowing, without a doubt, that he would _never._ It made him burst with trust and contentment.

“Change it out,” Crowley grumbled against the crease of Aziraphale’s hip and thigh. It was a vague instruction, but Aziraphale knew what he meant.

“Oh, are you sure you want to do that? Here?” Aziraphale asked, looking down just in time to see Crowley freeze up, his eyes going distant and afraid.

“Oh, only if you want to, angel, I didn’t... don’t mean to demand... I....” he stuttered, pupils gone incredibly thin.

Aziraphale recognized the signs of Crowley’s doubt instantly, and leaned up to silence the demon’s words with a sweet and sure kiss. He wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, soothing.

“Of course I will, my sweet, it’s like switching out clothing...” he started, but Crowley interrupted with a tentative smile.

“But, angel... you don’t change your clothes either.”

Aziraphale laughed, kissing his love again. “Touché. But this I will change for you, without fear or reservation. For you, love, anything. I only meant... wouldn’t you prefer the first time we try something new, that it be... I dunno, special?” Aziraphale asked, not quite satisfied with the word choice. It was always special; the slow passionate lovemaking in their bed, and the frantic sex on the nook table. But he’d deliberately pushed the demon’s buttons this time.

Echoing Aziraphale’s exact thoughts, Crowley spoke with a sweet grin, “it’s always special, if it’s you.”

Aziraphale smiled, sparing a single thought to swap out his genitals. He’d worn a vulva on a few occasions, despite preferring to present masculine, just out of curiosity. It was certainly less bother—everything contained and neat. Definitely easier to ride a horse with.

His thoughts were very abruptly interrupted as he felt a long tongue slide through his folds to his clit, where it began licking back and forth with rhythmic pressure.

“Oh!” he cried out, a hand flying to cover his mouth. He’d certainly never experimented with these parts sexually before, and... oh, they were sensitive. And Crowley _definitely _knew what he was doing.

Within minutes Aziraphale was nearly delirious, arching up off their little nest of pillows, thighs quaking and clenching around Crowley’s head. And when two fingers slid easily inside him, he came instantly.

It was certainly different. He wouldn’t say more intense, just... different. Where a male orgasm was more localized, this one throbbed _everywhere._ His whole body seized up, muscles spasming hard on Crowley’s fingers and making him groan.

Aziraphale came down from it slowly, relaxing into the pillows and letting out a long breath. No sooner had he done so, though, Crowley was pushing up to kneel between his still-spread legs, caressing up and down his shivering thighs soothingly.

“I asked for this for a reason,” he said, and Aziraphale noted the thick note of mischief in his voice, and a thrill went down his spine.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, lifting his head to look down at Crowley.

He was even more of a vision like this—towering over Aziraphale’s prone form, hands possessively gripping his plush thighs, chest heaving excitedly. And his cock was so hard and desperate, it was deep red and twitching, beads of precum dripping down the underside.

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed, still-serpentine tongue flaring out on the sibilant. “While refractory periods are pretty much optional for us with either, this one is exceptionally good at multiple, rapid fire orgasms. You can pretty much go from one to the next, without ever stopping.”

“S’that so?” Aziraphale asked, coy and teasing.

_“Allow me to demonstrate,”_ Crowley purred, echoing Aziraphale’s earlier words, and suddenly it was crystal clear—Crowley was getting back at him for the torture earlier. _What a naughty demon._

Aziraphale yelped as Crowley lowered a hand and began stroking through his folds, from soaking wet hole to clit, which he was much gentler with. And, just as Crowley had said, he was already feeling it build again.

Crowley continued to stroke him gently, back and forth, back and forth, never gaining speed or pressure, and the pleasure ratcheted incredibly slowly. And just when he was panting and rocking with the demon’s fingers, they pulled away to be replaced with the blunt, soft head of Crowley’s cock. It followed the same path, up and down his folds, teasingly light.

“Cro-_Crowley,”_ he moaned, enjoying the easy stroking but wanting _more_.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley replied, voice surprisingly calm and even.

“Don’t tease,” Aziraphale begged, rocking into Crowley’s cock and grunting at the perfect pressure it caused against his throbbing clit.

“Why_ ever _would I do that?” Crowley drawled, but before Aziraphale could scold him, he was pushing inside.

It felt very similar to having it in his arse, but the natural lubrication made the glide so much easier. He stretched easily to accommodate the demon, and while he did note little aches the farther inside Crowley pushed, it wasn’t awful. It was a building pressure inside that increased gradually.

_“Oh, fuck,” _Crowley gasped, halting his push inside and doubling over forward to prop himself above Aziraphale. “You’re so tight, m’gunna come,” he whimpered, his abdominal muscles twitching and making Aziraphale want to flip them over and ride his demon to a messy completion.

He didn’t, however; he simply brought both hands up to cage in the demon’s face.

“So why don’t you?” he asked, attempting coy and just managing doting.

Crowley’s blissed-out cringe morphed to an impish, toothy grin.

“Because I’m not done with my revenge yet,” he said, beginning to push back in.

“I kne-_oh!_-I knew that’s wha-_ah!_-what you were doing!” Aziraphale gasped playfully, finding himself full of Crowley and delighting in it.

“Of course it is,” Crowley muttered, keeping his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s as he began to move those serpentine hips. “I’m not letting you off the hook _that_ easily.”

_“Ooohhhhhh,” _Aziraphale gasped, gripping Crowley’s neck as he focused on the sensation—his wonderfully slick channel splitting open to accept the demon’s length, and closing back up tightly as soon as he pulled back.

Crowley moved torturously slowly, likely for two reasons, one; to ensure Aziraphale’s comfort, and two; to keep himself just stimulated enough to avoid coming.

It was delicious torment—like a massage, almost. And Crowley decided to be even more of a bastard, and lowered a hand between them to begin stroking Aziraphale’s clit again.

“Oh, Crowley, _yes... yes, like that... ohhhhh,” _he groaned, the pleasure building rapidly.

Unable to keep himself level, Crowley began pumping just a hint faster, and Aziraphale saw stars. His skin crawled with the building pleasure, his ears rang. And Crowley never faltered in his thrusts, or his strokes of the angel’s clit.

This one was already feeling more intense, Aziraphale could tell. His sex was on fire, and it was only getting better and better and better...

“Yes, my Crowley, I’m... I’m so close, so close, oh!” he groaned, the words spilling out with the desperation as his second orgasm plowed through him.

“Fuck!” Crowley howled, pulling out as soon as Aziraphale’s muscles began to tense and flutter on him. Aziraphale nearly blacked out with pleasure, his cunt spasming on nothing and his hips chasing the absence. He wanted to ask why Crowley had denied himself, but he had to wait until he stopped twitching with pleasure, wait until his voice could be used for something other than moaning.

_“My... my dear, why did you...”_ Aziraphale panted, peering down weakly at Crowley’s desperate cock—purple with need and twitching toward his stomach as little bursts of angry precum appeared.

Crowley growled, a sound of raw, unadulterated frustration, closing his eyes and attempting to settle himself before answering.

“One more,” he rasped, voice hoarse and dry, whole body shivering. “I want... one more from you.”

Aziraphale grinned with pride. This was the second time in two days Crowley had denied his own pleasure to ensure Aziraphale’s.

“So good to me,” he cooed, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could kiss him soundly.

“M’not. _Good,_” Crowley protested weakly into Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Oh, but you _are,” _Aziraphale uttered breathlessly, wondering for a moment why the demon was even still beating that particular dead horse. But now was not the time to discuss. Now was the time to _act_. “So very good to me, my dearest.” He paused, collapsing back from his elbows and laying out like an offering. “Now... _be good to me again.”_

Crowley smiled wickedly, leaning down to kiss him again, this one burdened with a surging tongue and indecent moan.

“Turn over for me?” Crowley whispered into his lips, and a thrill went down Aziraphale’s spine at the mystery his lovely demon had in store for him.

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale replied as Crowley pushed back to kneel on the blankets and watch with hungry eyes as Aziraphale flipped a leg over and rearranged.

“How do want me, love? All fours, or...?” Aziraphale asked over his shoulder, reveling in the involuntary hip thrust his suggestive phrasing caused the demon.

“However you’re comfortable,” Crowley said, actually licking his lips. “Lying, kneeling, all-fours. Doesn’t matter to me. But... if you would... bring your wings out for me?”

So _that_ was the demon’s evil plan? Wicked, wicked demon.

Noticing that his thighs were weak and trembling, Aziraphale decided to lie on his stomach, making a show of spreading his legs as he brought his wings out into the open.

“Bloody Satan on a spit, angel, you’re a sight,” Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale tossed a glance over his shoulder to see Crowley slowly pumping his fist on himself.

Aziraphale did not respond; instead wagging his arse back and forth tantalizingly.

“Fuck,” Crowley cursed again, falling to lay himself down atop Aziraphale, one arm propping himself up and the other rubbing teasingly up and down Aziraphale’s spine, between his wings.

“You remember the word?” Crowley whispered, his breath ghosting over the nape of Aziraphale’s neck and making him shudder. “Wing play can be incredibly intense.”

“I remember,” Aziraphale said, tilting his hips and grinding his arse against Crowley’s hard length, causing a twitch and a whimper.

Crowley again denied himself satisfaction to start out slow, a single hand methodically massaging through the feathers in one wing, then the other. Aziraphale’s weren’t quite as sensitive as Crowley’s, but the sensation was very relaxing—a repetitiveness to it that had Aziraphale groaning and letting his legs fall further open. But as far as them being erogenous... he was starting to think they were, the more they were touched.

He was so relaxed that he hardly noticed the demon pressing slowly back inside, and so wet from his two previous orgasms that Crowley’s hard length slid right home, absolutely no resistance or pain.

Crowley gave him two good thrusts before letting out a hum of disapproval. But before Aziraphale could inquire, Crowley was pushing back to kneel, and pulling Aziraphale back and up by the hips, arse on display and chest still resting in the blankets.

It had freed up Crowley’s other hand, and Aziraphale now found both of them in his wings, soothing and caressing as his hips started to pump. It was very quickly overwhelming... overwhelmingly _good._

Aziraphale found himself nearly hyperventilating as unbearable pleasure built back up—his wings pumping to the beat of Crowley’s thrusts, the demon’s fingers scratching lightly through the feathers. Crowley’s cock inside him felt sinfully good; Aziraphale’s body splitting open for him, the sound of their skin colliding a filthy, but lovely sound.

“Breathe, angel,” Crowley cooed, slowing his thrusts. Aziraphale nearly wailed, slamming himself back onto Crowley’s cock in a gesture he hoped screamed _“don’t stop, don’t slow down!” _He reached out and grabbed handfuls of the blanket, using this new grip as leverage to pump himself back on Crowley.

The demon moaned, low and sensual, his fingers spasming in Aziraphale’s wings and accidentally fisting into two handfuls of feathers.

Aziraphale cried out again as his cunt throbbed in reaction.

“Oh, Crowley!! Do... _do that again, love, please!” _he begged, hips stuttering to a halt as he contended with the pulsating pleasure in his cunt.

Crowley picked up the slack, hips pumping and cock sliding in and out, in and out, in a perfect rhythm that had Aziraphale’s eyes rolling back. The demon combined it with a gentle grip of Aziraphale’s feathers—not pulling, but holding securely.

So lost was he in pleasure, that he didn’t even register that he was letting out desperate little mewls with each thrust, and Crowley was beginning to match them. His hips started to move faster, his grip releasing, likely afraid to tear out feathers in his urgency, and migrating to the bony joint, which he gripped and used as leverage to pull Aziraphale back hard on his cock.

Drifting on a plateau of seemingly endless bliss, Aziraphale reached beneath himself, between Crowley’s bent knees, and gave his clit a single stroke.

He practically screamed as his orgasm hit, his cunt convulsing so hard on Crowley’s cock that it was nearly painful. His entire body spasmed with it, his wings beating like a disoriented bird.

Distantly, past the ringing in his ears and the buzzing in his skin, he was aware of Crowley seizing up and stilling inside him, grip on his wings so tight they throbbed. Within seconds, Crowley had collapsed down on top of Aziraphale, chest sandwiching his wing joints between them. Aziraphale’s rapture dulled before Crowley’s, and he was thankful for the opportunity to lie there as Crowley continued to curl his hips helplessly, moaning with abandon against Aziraphale’s ear.

Finally he stilled, panting hard as he released Aziraphale’s wings, feathers sticking to the sweaty palms, and propped himself up on either side of Aziraphale’s rib cage.

“Fuck, angel. How is every time better than the last?” he grunted, his hips thrusting with a tiny aftershock and reminding Aziraphale that he was still deep inside him. The sensation was warm and therapeutic, and Aziraphale actually wouldn’t mind just lying like this for a while and floating on a cloud of sated joy.

“Don’t know, my dear. But it certainly is,” he said, swallowing drily.

He whimpered as Crowley very slowly pulled out, and Aziraphale could feel his spend spilling out after him. He allowed himself to relax, his whole body going slack against the mountain of pillows. Idly, he peered up, and found that the glass of the conservatory walls was completely fogged over from their heavy breathing.

“Oh, my dear, look; we steamed up your garden,” he said playfully, turning onto his side as he waved a hand to banish their fluids and watching as Crowley gladly collapsed down next to him. He faced Aziraphale, placing a hand on the angel’s waist as he calmed.

“That, we did, Aziraphale. That, we did,” he said, breathless and exhausted.

Aziraphale took a brief moment to admire him in all his post-coital glory; chest still heaving slightly, and ginger hair glistening with sweat. He was still trembling, and his finally satiated cock was relaxed and lying limp against his thigh. He almost resembled the Renaissance paintings of old—body a perfect sculpture of beauty and face set in an eternally happy daze.

“So... do you think you’ll be more comfortable taking your serpent form more often?” Aziraphale asked, bringing a hand up to caress the demon’s hair back from his sweaty temple. He blinked lazily back at Aziraphale, a dopey smile spreading his lips before he laughed heartily.

“I had completely forgotten that’s what we were talking about,” he said, scooting in even closer and bowing his head in against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale could feel the demon’s now slow and even breaths as they tickled through his chest hair, and he smiled.

“Yes, angel. I’ll never think twice again.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, wrapping Crowley up in his arms, but something caught his eye—something huge and colorful.

In the corner, where there had been a growthless porcelain pot, there now resided a massive red rose bush; blooms the size of grapefruits and long, healthy green boughs that reached all the way to the ceiling.

“Er... dear... did you do that?” he asked, and Crowley’s head popped up to look in the direction of Aziraphale’s gaze.

Shock caused the demon’s eyes to go comically wide, and his mouth fell open in awe.

“I don’t... think I did,” Crowley mused, his slender pupils darting about as he analyzed the new shrub. “Did you?”

“I’m not sure... a lot was happening...” Aziraphale said, plopping back into the pillows with a tired groan. Crowley followed, disregarding the bush entirely.

“Well it would seem one of us has a very green thumb,” Crowley said as he snuggled back in against Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale scooped him up, soothingly brushing a hand up and down his spine.

“A green _something_,” he said, and Crowley erupted into laughter.

****

Aziraphale sighed happily, rearranging on their little couch. He did so gingerly, as Crowley’s slumbering head was dead weight in his lap. The movement did not wake him, thankfully, and Aziraphale took a moment to ignore his book and simply rake his fingers very gently through the demon’s velvet-soft hair. Crowley made an adorable sound, something like a groan and a purr, and snuggled in closer to Aziraphale’s stomach, an involuntary smile turning those beautiful lips up.

The wave of love and adoration that hit him then, as he gazed at the prone and trusting form of his beloved, was slightly shocking and more than a bit overwhelming—because it wasn’t just love, it was a fiery, vast protectiveness that frightened him. Images of the horrendous, vicious things he would do to ensure Crowley’s continued happiness flooded his mind—blood, steel, and feathers mixing together in a macabre mosaic of his desperate and endless affection.

It was these thoughts that caused the sound of the telephone ringing to make Aziraphale yelp, nearly jumping out of his skin. Crowley jerked with him, grumbling immediately and tossing a rude gesture toward the phone.

Somehow, Crowley’s sleepy, child-like frustration only made Aziraphale’s heart swell more, to the point he fancied himself the Grinch—heart about to burst from his chest, too small and insignificant to contain such multitudes any longer.

“Just a moment, my dear, I’ll get it. Don’t you move,” he cooed, warming at the blush that rose on Crowley’s cheeks as he settled back in. Aziraphale plopped his book down on the sofa cushion and reached for the corded phone on the end table, his free hand working through Crowley’s hair once more to return the demon to his relaxation.

“Eden Cottage,” he answered, more warmth blossoming in his chest at the lovely ring the title had. It perfectly encompassed what they had here—perfect, otherworldly, safe, and beautiful. That and, as their safe word, the word ‘Eden’ was now charged with such carnal weight that just speaking it could have one or both of them shivering.

“Well hello, Aziraphale,” Penny’s voice said, chipper and sweet. “Still there, are you?”

Aziraphale spluttered. “I… well, yes, wh- what do you mean, still? And shouldn’t you be enjoying your honeymoon?”

There was a prolonged, heavy silence, followed by a delightful little giggle. “No, Aziraphale. We got back yesterday… it’s been two weeks.”

Aziraphale felt the sudden chill that came with realizing time had gotten away from him, but as he looked down on the open, questioning face of Crowley, he realized how they’d passed that time—they had been so lost in one another, drifting in a breeze of desire and comfort, kisses and caresses, gasps and moans… that they’d lost two whole weeks in the process.

Aziraphale grinned bashfully, pulling the phone’s earpiece down to muffle against his chest as he whispered, “my dear, we’ve been at it for _two weeks!_ Penny’s back already!”

Crowley only looked mildly surprised, raising his left wrist to stare at his offensively expensive watch. He studied it for a moment, shrugged, and made a noncommittal “nyeh,” sound, and Aziraphale felt like kissing him. Immediately.

He managed not to, however, and pulled the phone back to his ear. “Terribly sorry, love, time got away from us. Did you need us back for any reason?”

“Oh, no, I just… I went by the shop, expecting to find you there, and got a little anxious. I was just making sure no power-hungry archangels had descended from the heavens to make more trouble.”

Aziraphale grinned at the memory… “get up there and make some trouble.” And Crowley really… never had.

“Oh no, we just, er… we’ve been… erm… _busy,_” Aziraphale tried, knowing he was blushing by the heat in his cheeks.

“_I’ll say_,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale playfully tugged on his hair.

“Yes, I… er… I gathered… as much…” Penny said, her own bashfulness clear in the rising pitch of her voice.

“Oh… _oh!”_ Aziraphale gasped, viscerally recalling the way Penny had called them up numerous times when she felt a surge of their emotions. “Oh dear, you… you didn’t…”

“I’m afraid so,” she said, voice patient and _oh so knowing._ Mortified, Aziraphale very nearly dropped the phone.

Worry clear on his features, Crowley sat up, titling his head like a curious puppy. Aziraphale’s need to kiss him became painful, but again he fought it off in exchange for plastering the receiver to his chest once more.

“She, erm…” he gulped, searching for tactful words. “She _knows_. She er… felt… something. From us.”

Crowley’s face drained, only to quickly fill bright pink in the cheeks. “Oh bloody hell…” he groaned, slapping a palm to his face to hide his embarrassment.

“It’s fine!” Penny’s voice was yelling into Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and he pulled the phone back to his ear once more. “Really,” she continued, voice controlled, but with a clear grin to it. “It’s about time, actually. I’m… I’m happy for you, both of you. It er… seems I wasn’t the only one on a honeymoon.”

Clearly having decided to listen more intently, Crowley colored even more, and rocketed to his feet.

“Fuck,” he cursed, striding into the kitchen, pouring a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter, and then downing the entire thing. “Want one?” he grumbled.

“No, thank you darling,” Aziraphale replied, too endeared to really be humiliated. He was curious just _how much_ she felt from the pair of them, but that was a conversation for another time.

“I suppose we should be getting back to London, then…” he said, feeling a deep, roiling displeasure at the words. Judging by the way Crowley’s humiliation suddenly gave way to sagging disappointment, he didn’t like the prospect much, either.

“Oh, don’t do so on my account,” Penny quipped. “I held down the fort for six years while you were in Rome, I think I can handle things for a little longer. Seriously. Stay for however long you need. You’ve earned it. Both of you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but agree. “Well, that’s… that’s very sweet, Penny. I think… I think we will stay, for a bit. I haven’t… _we haven’t_… that is to say, I’m not…”

The words just wouldn’t come. How to say what he meant to say? _I’m not finished saturating my Crowley with love. I’m not finished making up for lost time. I’m not done with late mornings in bed, hot coffee on the patio, evening walks on the beach… long nights making love. I don’t want to go; I don’t want it to end. _

Ever intuitive, Penny interjected. “I understand, Aziraphale. It’s not time to leave Eden yet.”

Tears welled in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he clutched a hand to his aching, love-filled heart, wondering absently if this was where it would burst from his ribcage.

“Quite right, Penelope, quite right indeed. I… I’ll let you know when… when we’re ready,” he said, voice breaking. Clearly noting the emotion in Aziraphale’s voice, Crowley was by his side in an instant, taking his free hand and interlocking their fingers.

“Take all the time you need,” she replied. “The world will still be here. You two made sure of it.”


	71. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well all... I had no idea this was where this story was going to end. But I have so much more to tell, and it occurred to me that, if I put it all in this one, this story is gunna be MASSIVE. And TBH, for something that I titled a trinity, I have no clue why I didn't plan to make it a trilogy to begin with. Brains, amiright. So there will be one more after this! Thanks for coming along for the ride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: Gen

“Bugger,” Penny cursed, flinging her little sheet of scribbled directions (fussy angel handwriting doing very little to stop her from becoming horrendously lost), and pulling off at a crossroads to fumble for the map in the glove box. She took the opportunity to blindly grab a macaron from the box Aziraphale had given her and nibble on it, smiling as she studied her inked-in route.

_“Whatever for?” Aziraphale had asked after she requested the witch’s address._

_“Oh, just... being a modern witch can get very lonely, Az,” Penny lied. “She seems a decent enough person, and I’m just itching to pick her brain about the airfield, the apocalypse, the horse... people. And you two, of course.”_

_From over on the book shop’s couch, Crowley snorted._

_“Don’t think they’ll have too much to say in that regard,” he said flatly. “The hubby’s not my biggest fan, and Anathema... tolerated me.”_

_“Oh, that’s pish-posh, my dear, and you know it,” Aziraphale scolded, but he immediately gravitated across the room and behind the couch, laying both hands on the demon’s shoulders._

_Penny could have cried with joy at the way Crowley’s usual tense and statuesque posture relaxed, the way his eyes blinked languidly and a long sigh left his lips. Aziraphale squeezed once, smiling down at the top of Crowley’s head and, apparently transfixed, bent to place a kiss into that well-coiffed hair._

_Penny expected Crowley to bristle, shrug off the affection and reach for his glass of red wine._

_But he didn’t. He smiled, so genuine that Penny swore she could see the visage of the former angel in that gesture alone, and goose pimples rose on her arms at the sight._

_“Anathema is quite fond of you, just as I am,” Aziraphale said, voice painfully soft. “She just knows how you get when, perish the thought, you get _complimented_.”_

_Crowley cringed, but Penny could tell it was forced by the still-upturned corner of his mouth in a muted grin._

_Aziraphale simply beamed, and Penny didn’t think she’d ever seen him so happy. Not holding a first-edition, not biting into his favorite sweets, not even brusquely shooing customers from his shop. He was practically glowing with it, his edges seeming to blur with off-white light like some kind of khaki-colored kaleidoscope._

_“Yes, right. Let me just... I have it here somewhere,” Aziraphale dithered, clearly realizing he’d become sidetracked, and stepped over to his desk._

_The way Crowley immediately tensed again at the angel’s absence, no matter how minimal, strengthened Penny’s resolve on her private little mission._

_Dust floated into the sunbeams as Aziraphale plopped an address book onto the surface of his ancient desk, apologizing profusely and waving the dust motes away as he cracked the book open and flipped through pages._

_“Device, Device, De...vice...” he mumbled, a manicured finger trailing down the surprisingly full list of names, phone numbers, and addresses._

_“Ah! Here we are. Anathema Device, Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield,” he said, whipping out a spare piece of parchment that appeared to have come from the Library at Alexandria. He scribbled the information down, folded the parchment primly, and handed it to her with a smile._

_“Thank you,” she said, shoving the paper into her jeans pocket._

_“Will Arvin be accompanying you on this little holiday?” Crowley asked, reaching for his wine as he tipped his glasses up into his hair. His yellow eyes shined so brightly in the din of the back room that they were practically reflected on the rippling surface of the wine._

_“No, just me,” she said, watching with delight as Aziraphale circled back around the front of the couch, flopped down next to Crowley, and unashamedly took the demon’s hand._

_As Crowley immediately curled his fingers around Aziraphale’s tightly, Penny recalled the very first time she’d met him, all those years ago in this very shop. She’d reached out to touch his hand and he’d recoiled, yanking it back and practically snarling at her, radiating feral defensiveness and pain. She grinned to think that that young, naive girl wouldn’t even recognize him now._

_“Oh, trouble in paradise already?” Crowley teased, sipping his wine with his free hand._

_“No, he’s just got work. Plus... I thought it would be nice for me to speak to her privately... witch to witch, as it were. Just for the first time. Maybe after that, the blokes can tag along, discuss... I dunno, whatever blokes these days feel like chatting about. Football, or something.”_

_“Definitely _not _computers. Daft, that one,” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale playfully slapped his forearm._

_“Be nice,” he said._

_“Never,” replied Crowley wickedly._

_Aziraphale beamed even wider, and this time Penny was certain the room lit up._

_“Well, I best be off, then,” she said, grabbing her coat from the rack._

_“Oh, you’re going right now?” Aziraphale said, standing suddenly. Crowley didn’t allow the movement to separate their hands, however, and he lithely followed, setting his wine down on the coffee table in a single fluid, snakelike motion._

_“Sure, why not?” Penny asked, shrugging into her coat._

_“Oh, but we’ve only just got back,” Aziraphale said sadly, his pitiful pinched brows making him look like some kind of downtrodden puppy._

_“And you’ll be here when I get back,” she said, peeking down to where their hands were joined and failing to shake off the thought that they had only returned from Eden Cottage because of her. That they weren’t ready yet, that they still needed time to explore each other, explore what their freedom really meant._

_“Well... here!” Aziraphale exclaimed, sidestepping to his desk again and handing her a box of macarons. “For the road!”_

_“But these are yours, Aziraphale, I couldn’t...”_

_“Oh, don’t fret. I’ve got plenty,” Aziraphale said, his cheeks suddenly coloring brilliantly. “Crowley, erm... he got me some the other day. And this morning.”_

_Penny allowed her gaze to fall on the demon, giving him the world’s most knowing look. To her slight shock, his cheeks colored too._

_“Yeah, I... couldn’t help m’self,” he grumbled, and Aziraphale knocked their shoulders together affectionately._

_“Doting demon,” he accused._

_“Fussy angel.”_

_Said fussy angel accepted that endearment wholeheartedly, leaning in and kissing Crowley soundly on the lips, the zeal of it making Penny feel like an intruder into something akin to paradise... Eden, even._

_“Well...” Penny said, pocketing the little box of biscuits. “Thanks.”_

_She leaned in, placed a simple kiss to the angel’s cheek, and then turned to face Crowley._

_“Crowley,” she said, holding her hand out, palm up like she’d done a thousand times before._

_Something shifted inside her as he confidently raised his free hand and placed it in hers, like the Earth had flipped on its axis. The unfiltered and explosive happiness that flooded through her hit like a stampede of rampaging wild horses, making her heart soar and her skin crawl. It was pure, and perfect, and just a taste of something so strong, so untamed and powerful, she was fairly certain humans weren’t meant to feel it._

_“I’m so happy... so _proud _of both of you,” she said, knowing it sounded like a goodbye._

_Naturally, Crowley didn’t know what to do with the sentiment, but Aziraphale let out a huffy little breath, reaching forward to grasp her arm and squeeze once. It didn’t go beyond her notice that it was reminiscent of the handfasting ceremony that bound her to her husband, the three of them joined and touching like this. She grinned, happy to think of it as a different sort of marriage._

_“I’ll see you two in a bit, yeah?” she asked, uncertain why tears were threatening._

_“Of course, love. We’ll be here,” Aziraphale said._

Penny sighed happily at the memory, wiping away macaron crumbs from the map and noting where she’d gone wrong. Tossing the map into the passenger seat haphazardly, she turned the radio up (The Clash’s _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ spilling out into the silent fields and hills beyond), popped one more macaron in her mouth, and flipped the Cooper around to seek out the last turn-off.

Tadfield was surprisingly similar to the South Downs—quiet, secluded, and so picturesque it seemed to have been plucked from a Kincade. Jasmine Cottage was no different—beautiful but dated laid bricks, vines crawling up the walls like greedy fingers, and a lovely little fence surrounding a quaint, colorful garden. Within the fence was an antique bicycle, propped against a wrought iron bench, and lush, well-trimmed grass.

“Just as he said,” Penny muttered to herself, tossing the macaron box atop the now-crinkled map in the passenger seat, silencing both Billy Joel and the car by extracting her keys, grabbing her purse, and exiting into the mid-summer heat.

On her walk through the garden, she noted the care and devotion that had gone into it—a little patch of what appeared to be very verdant datura, henbane, belladonna, and Mandrake near the stoop—and wondered how Crowley could every think this woman only ‘tolerated’ him.

With a nervous sigh, she knocked.

“Yes?”

The woman was _stunning_, to say the least, but in an odd sort of intimidating way. She wore her hair natural—long and curling but slightly unruly—and a pair of thin, almost harsh spectacles that gave her the air of Penny’s stern primary school librarian. Her dress was a simple patterned cotton, with accents of lace, and her stance was guarded. She seemed worried, somehow, to find a strange woman on her doorstep.

“Erm, hi... I er... are you by chance Anathema Device?” Penny asked cautiously. She wasn’t sure why, but she was suddenly very intimidated.

“Maybe,” the woman said, her eyes analytical but her tone a bit playful.

“Oh, er... I’m Penny, Penelope Blackthorn. I...”

“_Penelope Blackthorn?! _Like... Crowley’s witch?!” Anathema gasped, her tentativeness morphing immediately into excitement and softening her harsher features.

Penny giggled to be addressed as ‘Crowley’s witch.’

“The very same,” she confirmed.

Anathema visibly relaxed, pulling the cracked door further open.

“Oh... to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asked, expression now open and entreating.

“Well I, er... I was wondering... hoping actually...”

She inhaled, steeling herself for the gravity of what she was asking.

“I need to break a spell. A deal actually, that I made. With... the devil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, if you stuck around for the 71 chapters of pure chaos. I have ideas for the next one, but I'm going to take a short break before writing, because I've been writing this and Recoil since before the show aired, and I need a little breather. But I will be back, so if you're interested, make sure to follow the series! Love you all!


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